


Miss Holmes

by ladymac111



Series: Miss Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family, Gen, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4278615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/ladymac111
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was in his early twenties, a changing world led him to take a risk.  Now, his carelessness has a smartphone, a Facebook page, and nowhere else to turn.</p><p>Gen with a side of slash.  Established Sherlock/John.  Past Sherlock/OFC.  Background original character death.</p><p>Rated Teen for coarse language, references to sex, and character death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 19th October

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the new version! It's been almost three years exactly since I first published the original. I've made significant changes to the writing and the content. It's been six months in the re-writing, and it took only one to write initially, so I hope that all of my love comes through in this version.
> 
> This story does, of course, owe a debt of gratitude to MadLori's to Genie Watson, and also to The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes. I also want to extend my heartfelt thanks to every person who left kudos and comments on the original -- especially Ihnasarima -- and thank you in advance to everyone who does the same here. I love you all <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full-view cover art on my Tumblr [here](http://ladymac111.tumblr.com/post/124487583606/miss-holmes-by-ladymac111-on-ao3-pencil-and)

 

To: Mr Sherlock Holmes  
221B Baker St  
London

From: Ms Rachel Bradbury  
Bournemouth  
14 August 2015

 

Dear Sherlock,

As I write this, I am nearing the end of my life, and by the time this letter is posted I will have lost my battle with ovarian cancer. I don't have long, months at most, and I've asked my attorney to post this to you after my death. I'm writing to you, not because you care about such things – I know you don't – but in regard to another matter in which I regret you are already involved.

I'm sure you remember our encounter fourteen years ago. I regret to inform you that I intentionally deceived you: I was not using birth control, and I conceived a child. I had been looking for a man to father a child for me, and I decided you were the best available choice. Our daughter, Alexandra, has just turned thirteen. I never sought to inform you about her because I saw you merely as a source of genetic material, but now that I am about to die, I am faced with the unfortunate truth that you are the only family Alexa has who may be capable of taking care of her. My mother is currently set up to be her legal guardian when I'm gone, but she lives in a retirement facility and it's not a feasible long-term arrangement.

Alexa knows that you are her father – she made the connection herself when you became famous a few years ago. You are listed as her father on her birth certificate, and Holmes is her middle name. To look at her, your paternity is certain, though of course you may have a genetic test done if you doubt it.

With this in mind, I come to the point of my letter: I would like you to become Alexa's guardian when I'm gone. You are free to refuse, but in my romantic fantasies I confess I see you stepping into your role as her father so that you two can be a family in my absence. She is curious to meet you, and receptive (if hesitantly) to the idea of living with you. I offered her emancipation, but she rejected it, and I don't really think she would do well living on her own at this point. If you decline to take her in, or if it doesn't work out, I have done what I can to ensure that you're not held responsible for her, but one can never be completely certain of these things.

Alexa is a wonderful young woman, as intelligent and headstrong as I remember you were. I hope that you will try to be a part of her life.

Yours,  
Rachel.

 

 

John blinked at the letter, trying to absorb everything, then glanced over at Sherlock, who was staring pointedly out the window with his violin on his shoulder, bow hanging limp at his side.

He dropped the paper to the desk and sighed. “So you've got a kid.”

Sherlock clutched the bow as if he was about to play, but instead dropped the violin on his armchair, stalked across the room, and threw himself on the couch. “So it seems.”

“And this woman, what she's saying … it's true?”

“As far as I can tell without a DNA test, yes.”

“So … you …” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “With her?”

“Don't be an idiot, John, of course I did.”

John turned in his chair to look at Sherlock, who was glaring at the ceiling. With a sigh, he turned back to the letter on the table. “Fourteen years ago … you would have been at Uni?”

“Just started that grad program at Bart's.”

“Ah.” John's mouth went dry, and he licked his lips before he spoke again. “So she was the woman you experimented with.”

“For god's sake!” Sherlock launched off the couch and into the kitchen, where he clattered glassware around on the table with his back to the living room.

John had had enough. “Stop acting like such a child! We have to decide what to do about this!”

“No we don't.” Sherlock rattled some more things together, then slammed a cupboard. “I was declared dead once. I could do that again.”

John's eyes narrowed. “You could _not_ do that again.”

“Yes I could. Mycroft could make it happen.”

“But he _wouldn't_ , Sherlock. You can't run away from this.”

“Yes I can, in fact! It doesn't have to be my problem! I don't have to do anything!”

“But you do! Doing nothing is a decision! If you don't become part of her life, you're deciding to leave her to the foster care system. And if you do that, you never know if someone is going to get on your case and force you to take some kind of responsibility for her. It seems like your paternity is pretty well proven.”

“John!” Sherlock whirled on him, eyes cold. “I _cannot_ _deal_ with this right now. So leave. It. _Alone_.”

There was a beat of ominous silence. “All right. Fine.” John got up and took his coat roughly off the back of the door. “Just don't forget that legally I'm a part of this too, since you decided you wanted to marry me, and like an idiot I said yes. I'll be back when you've had a chance to be rational about this.”

He could imagine the look on Sherlock's face as he went down the stairs and out into the crisp autumn afternoon, but he didn't turn around to confirm it.

 


	2. 10th November

Sherlock was fidgeting, and it was driving John up the wall. It was almost four o'clock, and Alexa was due to arrive any minute with her mother's friend, who was chaperoning their first meeting at a coffee shop near Alexa's school in Bournemouth. It was John's first time visiting the town on the south coast since one family holiday when he was a child, and from what he had seen from the scenic route the cab had taken them from the train station to their hotel, was very pretty, although chilly and wet in the current season.

John heaved a sigh when Sherlock got his phone out for the seventh time, and dropped his hand onto it, flattening it to the table. "God, Sherlock, give it a _rest_."

“Hey!”

“It won't make it go any faster, and you being twitchy is making me even more nervous.”

“That's hardly _my_ fault.”

John rolled his eyes. “Could you please just grow up a little?”

“Why? Because it turns out I fathered a child I suddenly have to change who I am?”

He sighed again. “Christ, I'm going to have my hands full.”

Sherlock crossed his arms indignantly. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It's just that you're already as dramatic as a thirteen-year-old girl, so having two of you in the house would certainly be _interesting_.”

He scowled. “I am not a _drama queen_.”

“Of course, dear.” He wasn't ready to argue about this any more, and picked up his coffee cup, but then put it down suddenly. “That must be them.”

A professionally-dressed woman opened the door, and walked in from the late autumn cold with a girl in her early teens wearing a school uniform. Her curly black hair was pulled back in a messy bun, showing off her fair complexion, strong cheekbones, and bright blue eyes. Any doubts John might have had evaporated – this girl was _definitely_ Sherlock's daughter.

The men rose to their feet as the women came over to their table, and Alexa's eyes were wide as she took them in.

John extended his hand to Alexa's chaperone. “Doctor John Watson.”

“Cora Flynn. I'm a friend of the family, and I'm managing things for Alexa right now. I've known her since she was a little girl.” She turned her gaze to Sherlock. “And Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It's a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Sherlock took her offered hand. “Thank you. I'm glad you decided to meet with us.” He turned to the girl, and hesitantly held out his hand. “Alexa.”

She took it, equally timid. “Mr. Holmes.”

Cora put a hand on Alexa's shoulder. “Can I get you a hot chocolate?”

She nodded. “Yes please.”

As Cora went to the counter, Sherlock gestured and the three of them sat. “You don't have to call me that,” he said. “Mister, I mean. I'm Sherlock.”

A careful smile came over her face. “Sorry. It seems weird though, calling strange adults by their first names. Well, less strange now. But still, it's too … familiar. And nobody calls their parents by their first names.”

Sherlock looked a bit confused, but he didn't argue. “What would you rather call me?”

She shrugged, and blushed a little. “Well … ever since I found out about you a couple years ago, I've thought of you as … Dad.”

Sherlock paled, and Alexa looked between them with a slightly concerned expression.

John cleared his throat. “Sorry for the reaction,” he said. “You've had a bit more time to get used to the idea. We only got your mother's letter last month.”

She nodded, and turned her focus to John with a familiar thoughtful expression. “Doctor Watson, what should I call you then? Since I rather think I'm going to be seeing quite a lot of you.”

“Well, I ...” John swallowed. “Just John, I suppose.”

She leaned forward a little. “You don't have to keep it a secret.”

“Clever girl,” Sherlock chuckled.

John gaped, and was rescued momentarily when Cora returned with hot chocolate for Alexa and a very large coffee for herself. “Oh, you asked them already?”

“Nearly.”

John frowned at Sherlock. “You see? _Everyone_ talks.”

He shrugged. “I know.”

“Well?” Alexa prodded.

The two men exchanged a glance. “She's your daughter.” John crossed his arms in resignation and sat back.

Sherlock bit his lip and studied his coffee before he took a slow breath. “John and I were married six months ago. It's a complete cliché, but we eloped to Gretna Green.”

Alexa smiled. “Sounds romantic.”

John's eyebrows rose. “So you … you don't mind that we're … a couple?”

“Why would I mind?”

“Fair enough.” He lifted his cup. “I guess I can't help remembering when Harry came out. Things are different now. People are different now.”

“Harry?”

“My older sister.”

“Oh, right, she comments on your blog sometimes.”

He blinked in surprise. “You follow my blog?”

She rolled her eyes, and Sherlock suppressed a laugh. “Half the _world_ follows your blog. Is that why you didn't mention getting married? Seems like something most people would share. Is it a secret or something?”

“It's private,” Sherlock said, and John nodded. “The people who know are those who deserve to. Everyone else should find a better hobby.”

“There can be advantages to following the gossip. Didn't you have a case like that once? Tells you an awful lot about the things people try to hide.”

Cora caught John's eye. “I'd say you get used to it, but you've got your own.”

“Do I ever.”

“How long have you two been together, anyway? I mean, I know you just got married, but you were a couple before that, obviously.”

“It's sort of … complicated. Unclear.” He looked at Sherlock, who gave him a small nod of permission. “We met almost five years ago, and I moved in right away. Technically we were just sharing at that point, but we hit it off and became good friends quite quickly. But then after a year and a half he went and played dead for a while. Nearly killed me.”

“As far as being a couple, that's the more complicated part,” Sherlock cut in, obviously trying hard to avoid discussing his disappearance. “We danced around each other for a long time, both wanting more but thinking the other didn't, and then it sort of all happened at once.” He smiled into his coffee. “We'd had a couple of scrapes, and there were times where I nearly kissed him before I thought better. But one evening I couldn't take it any more, so I proposed, and he accepted, and the next day we were married.”

Alexa had a slightly dreamy look on her face. “That's _so_ romantic.”

“How have things been since then?” Cora prompted.

“Great, actually,” John said. “A bit rocky at first, getting used to the new things. But even with that it really has been wonderful. I have no doubt that we made the right decision.”

“Rocky how?” Cora asked carefully. “Like you're still finding your feet together?”

“Not really,” John said. “It's been a big change all at once, but it was also a very long time coming. We were both ready for it.”

Sherlock nodded. “The foundation was there for years. Everything else is just details.”

“Did you ever consider having children?”

“Never,” Sherlock said. There was a hint of sadness in his eyes when he glanced up at Alexa, who was studying the foam in her cup.

“I did, when I was younger, and mostly dating women,” John said. “But I got older, and I was living with Sherlock, the way our life is. I gave up on it. There was a bit of me that regretted it a little, but it was never enough to make me want to give up what I have with him.”

“You're trying to figure out if we're fit to be her parents,” Sherlock said.

“Obviously,” Alexa muttered.

“I shouldn't be surprised, now there are two of you.” Cora rolled her eyes. “At any rate, it would take a month or two for the paperwork to go through, if you apply right away.”

“And what happens to Alexa in the meantime?” John asked.

“Technically I'm staying with my Gran,” she said with a grimace. “I've been boarding at school, though, so I don't really have to see her. It's not great, but it works. I've gotten used to it.”

“She's in a bit of a legal grey area right now,” Cora admitted. “Her grandmother is only serving as legal guardian temporarily. Eventually she will have to enter foster care.”

“So what sort of timetable are we looking at?” John said. “How soon would we have to decide to take her in to … well, to keep things simple? I mean, if we decide to go that direction.”

“We don't want you to rush into anything,” Cora said quickly, “and Alexa wants to finish the year at her school here, so to keep things streamlined it would be best if you could make a decision and apply by the end of February. That will give us plenty of time to do all the paperwork and get her into a school in London in time for the autumn term.”

Sherlock released a breath. “That's a rather generous amount of time. It would give us all some time to get to know one another, too.”

Alexa raised an eyebrow. “Didn't you move in with John after you'd known him only a day?”

"Technically he moved in with me, I already lived there."

“I did save his life that day,” John said quickly.

Sherlock grinned at him. “I like her.”

“And it's different when it's two adults. It was a flatshare, and I could have moved out. This is something we need to be really sure about.”

Sherlock affected a dramatic pout, and John gave him a scolding look.

Cora smiled. “The holidays are coming up. That will be a great opportunity for some family time.”

“Your grandmother won't miss you for Christmas?” Sherlock asked.

Alexa grimaced. “Well, we don't celebrate Christmas. She'll say she wants me there for Hanukkah but I know she doesn't mean it.”

Sherlock looked surprised. “You're Jewish?”

“We're Ashkenazim; Gran and the rest are Masorti. But Mum and I didn't practice and I haven't been to temple since I was little. That's a big part of the not-getting-along thing with Gran.”

"But your name's Bradbury."

"A Christian man married into the family like four generations ago," she said, and the _obviously_ was clearly implied. "The name stuck around, but the red hair didn't."

“Hang on a tick,” John said, leaning forward. “If your family's Ashkenazi, wasn't your mum worried about Tay-Sachs disease when she had you?”

Alexa looked slightly confused, and glanced at Cora, who had a guilty expression. “Rachel is – well, was – a carrier. Part of the reason she chose you, Sherlock, is that you're a gentile, so the chance of you also being a carrier was very low. I tried to get her to find a way to have you tested, but she wouldn't.”

“To be fair, I probably would have figured it out if she'd asked me to do a DNA test.”

“Was I tested?” Alexa asked, still looking a little shell-shocked.

Cora nodded, and looked slightly miserable. “Right after you were born. You're a carrier, too.”

Alexa was trying not to look betrayed. “Is there anything else you and mum kept secret that I should know about?”

Cora looked at her, then at Sherlock and John, and then into her coffee. “She had Gaucher's disease, and you're a carrier for that as well. She was never tested for BRCA but based on how things went I think there's a high probability you inherited that also.”

Alexa stared at her, breathing hard and trying not to cry. “Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't _she_ tell me?”

“She was going to, darling, but she didn't have the time. Before she got sick you were too young to understand, and then she didn't want to taint the time that she had left with you.”

A fat tear rolled down Alexa's cheek, and she wiped it away roughly. “I'm sorry,” she said hastily. “I promised myself I wasn't going to be like this today. I didn't want you to see me like this.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “It's all right,” he said gently. “It hasn't been very long, and we're all here to support you.”

She shook her head, and a few more tears fell. “But you don't even know me.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock agreed, “but you know what I do, how much I can see. John and I want to give it a chance with you, to get to know you, and your grief is a part of who you are. If we're going to be spending time together, that's a thing we need to know about.”

John squeezed Sherlock's knee under the table, and they shared a look. “We'd like to see you again,” John said.

Alexa took a few moments to compose herself, then glanced at Cora, who nodded. “I'd like that too,” she said, relaxing a little.

“Go ahead and exchange contact details,” Cora said, “but do make sure you keep me in the loop. Your grandmother will tell me if you don't.”

Alexa rolled her eyes a little as she got her phone out. “I have your numbers already.”

Cora blinked at her, shocked. “You what?”

“It's on their websites!”

She sighed. “Of course.”

“I just texted you both. I looked for you on Facebook before but I couldn't find anything that wasn't fake.”

John tried very hard not to feel his age as he fished his phone from his jacket pocket “I'm not on Facebook, I'm afraid.”

“I am,” Sherlock said, tapping at his phone, “though I never use it so it's not really worth you adding me, or whatever the verb is.”

They finished with their phones and tucked them away again, and Alexa picked up her drink. “So, um. How was the trip down?”

Sherlock nodded. “Not bad. Just three hours on the train.”

“When did you get here? Seen much of Bournemouth yet?”

“Got in about an hour ago, so we basically came straight here. We're staying at a hotel on the beach down here, the Commodore?”

She nodded. “That's right by BCS. Have you got a sea view?”

John shook his head with a little smile. “Yes, though it doesn't look like much today.”

“I didn't realize you were staying,” Cora said.

“A bit far for a day trip,” John said. “Figured we'd stay a night, maybe see a few sights. I haven't been to the south coast since I was a boy.”

“Neither have I,” said Sherlock. “We did spend a week on the Isle of Wight once when I was quite small, but I don't remember much.”

“It's nice there,” Alexa said. “Actually went on a weekend cycling trip last year with school.”

“God, that sounds marvellous,” Sherlock said wistfully. “We never did anything fun when I was at boarding school. Nothing officially-sanctioned anyway, all the fun involved sneaking out.” He paused and considered. “Not that I ever did that much sneaking out. Maybe if I'd had _friends_.”

John had crossed his arms. “Fond school memories aren't your strong suit, are they, dear?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and waved a dismissive hand. “Shut up, like yours was any better.”

John sighed. “Well, I never boarded. Just lived with Harry our entire childhood.”

“Having siblings is its own special hell,” Sherlock said.

Alexa looked awkward. “I wouldn't know. Always been just me and Mum, until now.”

Sherlock bit his lip, abashed. “Well, I had deduced you were an only child.”

“Not that hard.”

“No, not really.”

John cleared his throat. “Anyway, how are you finding boarding, Alexa?”

She shrugged. “It's all right. I've got a few friends who are boarding too, so I'm not lonely. Well, not very. And there's plenty of time for doing homework.” She glanced at her watch. “Speaking of, I've got to be getting back.”

Cora pulled out her phone, and raised her eyebrows at the time. “Goodness, it did get late. They're expecting you.” She and Alexa stood up and shrugged into their coats.

John and Sherlock rose as well. “Let's do this again,” Sherlock said. “We're still here tomorrow. Have you got any time?”

Alexa shook her head. “Sorry, school stuff. But we'll text and set up something later.”

“I'll let the school know that you'll be spending some time with Alexa. You can meet her there next time, and it can be just the three of you if you like.” Cora shook their hands. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, very nice to have met you.”

“And you,” John replied.

“Alexa,” said Sherlock, extending his hand.

She took it with only a slight hesitation. “Sherlock.”

His smile was almost shy as he held her hand. “Call me Dad.”


	3. 23rd December

John heard Sherlock's key in the front door, and a little thrill of panic went through him as he stood in the middle of the kitchen, helplessly looking for a place to put the two flasks of _something_ that Sherlock had left out on the table. Why was he panicking? It wasn't as though Alexa didn't know them moderately well by now. They'd spent four of the last five weekends in Bournemouth, each visit dragging longer and longer as they found they didn't really want to say goodbye. But this was her first visit to see them in London, and he supposed it mattered, even though the flat would inevitably return to its normal state of barely-controlled chaos. That didn't mean he shouldn't make an effort, though.

Preparing the flat for Sherlock's daughter had become a much bigger undertaking than either of them had originally thought, once Mrs Hudson pointed out that they were in possession of an illegal firearm. The discussion had quickly turned into a monstrous, shouting row, and by the end of it they were both so exhausted John wasn't even sure which side each of them was on. Sherlock had spent the night on the couch, and in the morning they decided to keep the gun itself in the safe in the base of their wardrobe, but only after unloading it and turning the ammunition over to a certain police sergeant, who agreed to keep quiet about it, in exchange for the right over the next six months to ask Sherlock to temporarily leave any crime scene where she felt he was in the way. They had both grumbled about it, but John was pleased enough with the outcome.

“Hello!” Mrs Hudson cooed from downstairs. “You must be Alexa.”

“She is indeed. Alexa, Mrs Hudson, our landlady.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure's all mine, dear. Sherlock, do you boys need anything? I'm out to do a bit of shopping.”

There was a rustle of Sherlock taking off his greatcoat. “Pick up some biscuits, and join us for tea when you get back?”

“Oh, yes, thank you. Why don't you two get upstairs, I'm sure John is eager to see you.”

John was not, in fact, particularly eager. Terrified was probably a better descriptor for what he was feeling. He finally shoved the flasks behind the kettle ( _they don't smell; it's okay_ ) and dashed into the sitting room to scoop up the small mountain of papers on the table.

“John, what are you doing?”

John whirled, dropping half the pile. “Um … I'm … straightening up?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow before turning to set Alexa's duffel bag on the steps going up. “Why? I already did, before I left.”

Alexa came into view, carrying a backpack. She gave him a bright smile, and he gave her a nervous one in return before returning his attention to Sherlock. “And now I'm doing it again, because you did a terrible job and we have company. Plus the party tomorrow night.”

Sherlock sighed and surveyed the room. “That's not until tomorrow. And put those papers back down, I have to file them anyway.

John tried to move, but found himself embarrassingly frozen. Finally Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to Alexa. “We'll let him be for a few minutes. Your room is up on the second floor. It was John's at first, before he moved down to be with me. We've been storing things there for a while and we tried to tidy it up a bit, but we can find another place for them if they're in your way.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine. I don't need a whole lot of space.”

“Nonsense. We want you to be comfortable here. You shouldn't feel like you're sleeping in an attic. Though it does get cold at night, sometimes. Old building, you know. And the fireplace is filled in. I don't know how John managed it for so long; I slept up here for a little while and I hated it. If you want we can get a space heater, if you think you need it. In the meantime Mrs Hudson has some extra quilts--”

“Really, Dad, it's fine.” There was a prolonged silence, during which John came back to himself and dumped the papers on the table again. _Sherlock's problem, not mine. At least the kitchen table is clear so we can eat._ With a weary sigh he slipped his shoes off and flopped onto the couch with a magazine.

“It's lovely.” Alexa's voice floated down the stairs. “Can you see Regent's Park from here?”

“You can see a few trees down at the end of the road if you get right up to the window here.”

“Wow.” The floorboards creaked gently. “This really is nice, thank you. It's hardly attic-y at all.”

Sherlock's feet shuffled, and John smiled. “Yes, well. Mrs Hudson helped.”

 

 

Sherlock filed his papers quickly while Alexa took a few minutes settling into her new room, and then gave her the grand tour: “The loo; it doesn't lock so be sure it's latched. If you want to take a bath just let us know first that you'll be tying it up. Through there's our bedroom, feel free to hang a towel over the glass for privacy if you want. The kitchen, of course. Be sure to wipe down any surface you're planning to make food on, I do experiments and I won't say my materials are _toxic_ as such but best to be safe. Dishes and things are in the cupboards probably. And the sitting room, which is generally safe. Just leave the skull where he is.”

Mrs Hudson got back a short while later, and the four of them sat down to tea with a truly heroic variety of biscuits. “I didn't know what you like,” she explained to Alexa.

“I like everything!” she said, helping herself to two Jaffa cakes and three custard creams. “Thank you.”

“Yes, thanks Mrs H,” John added, liberating a Hobnob from the plate. The tea was kicking in and he was starting to feel like himself again. Sherlock was already happily munching on a chocolate digestive, trying not to drop crumbs on himself while he sat slouched into one of the desk chairs opposite John.

“So tell me about you, Alexa,” Mrs Hudson said. “Sherlock's been rather tight-lipped.”

“There isn't that much to tell, really,” she said. “Apart from suddenly having a dad after thirteen years without one, my life is appallingly boring. I go to class, do homework, practice the violin.”

“You play the violin?” Sherlock perked up suddenly.

“You didn't notice? I play with the orchestra at school.”

“Any good?”

She smiled shyly. “Concertmaster.”

“Very impressive. You take lessons?”

“Used to. My teacher said I'd outgrown him and gave me some recommendations for teachers here in London, but then Mum … well. So I stopped doing the lessons and I just play right now. But I think I'd like to start up again sometime.”

Sherlock looked like ho was about to start babbling with excitement, so John interrupted. “Your father plays a lot. It helps him to think.”

“It's the opposite for me,” Alexa said. “I do it like a meditation. I let myself get swept up in the music and the world just falls away.”

“We should play together sometime,” Sherlock said, marginally calmer. “I've got an old duet book from when I was in school.”

Alexa grinned. “I bet I have the same book. Next time I'll bring my violin.”

“If you want to practice while you're here, you're welcome to borrow mine,” Sherlock offered.

John's eyebrows rose. “There you go, Alexa, you must be special. Even I'm not allowed to touch his violin.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes gently. “You have no idea what you're doing with it. It's actually nothing like a clarinet.”

John grumped quietly, and Mrs Hudson refilled his tea cup. “What are you studying at school?”

“Just the usual,” Alexa said. “Bit of everything. I'm particularly fond of maths, though.”

“Good for you,” Mrs Hudson said. When I was a girl they didn't much like us doing that sort of thing.”

“Maths was never my strong suit,” John added. “I managed just enough to get into medicine. What about you, Sherlock?”

He waved an elegant hand dismissively. “I learned enough to do well at school, and then deleted most of it. Not much need for calculus in my line of work.” He caught Alexa's expression. “Not _much_ , but not none. No need to get upset, I've still got the basics. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the fundamental theorem of calculus after Mr Fitzpatrick spent so many hours traumatising us with it in year ten.” He paused. "Come to think of it, don't tell my mother I said that, either."

Alexa was suddenly very curious. "Why not?"

"She's a mathematician. Well, was. She says she gave it up and pretends not to be interested but she obviously still is; she'll talk about it for several very long minutes before she remembers she's claiming it's improper of her to still be obsessed with equations."

“Let's play a game,” John interrupted, hoping desperately to stem the tide of calculus conversation, which he now knew would inevitably come up once the girl and her grandmother met. “Do you like board games, Alexa?”

“Yeah,” she said, “but all the ones they have at school are so _boring_ , I haven't played anything in a while. What have you got?”

“Loads of things.” Sherlock got up excitedly and crouched down behind the chair to get a better look at the shelf.

Alexa turned around in the chair to look for herself. “Ooh, Cluedo! I bet you're brilliant at that.”

“What?” John interjected. “I thought I'd binned that, after the time you stabbed the board in a strop about the rules being wrong.”

“You did,” Sherlock said, “and then I rescued it. Mycroft understands how it should be played. Oh, how about this? John and I don't really play because it's better with more people.”

He lifted the Carcassonne box out, and Alexa made an appreciative noise. “I've heard all about that, but I haven't played.”

“It's straightforward to learn, but it's one of those games that has the potential for a lot of complexity once you get into it,” Sherlock explained, moving to the table and pulling the lid off. “This one has a bunch of expansions, which should we use?”

“Maybe it's best if we just play the normal version to start,” John said.

“No, I'm sure I'll be fine,” Alexa said, studying the pieces. “Ooh, a dragon! Let's do the one with the dragon.”

They started unpacking the box, and John sighed. “You staying, Mrs H?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she said. “I used to play a lot of cards, though it's been years now. I'll give this a try, though I think I'll need another pot of tea to get through it.” She collected the dishes and went into the kitchen to get it started.

“I know exactly what you mean,” John said. Sherlock had the rule sheet out and was talking a mile a minute, Alexa hanging on his every word and occasionally nodding enthusiastically.

The game went rather quickly, John thought. Alexa and Mrs Hudson had proved to be quick learners, and Sherlock's daughter was, perhaps unsurprisingly, rather brilliant at it. By the time John laid the last tile, she and Sherlock were tied for the lead, with John and Mrs Hudson a distant third and fourth. They took the tea things to the kitchen, leaving the other two to calculate the final points for the farms and figure out the winner. John had just started washing up when he heard Alexa's squeak of delight. “I won!”

“Only because I laid that junction,” Sherlock said.

“Wait, you _let_ me win?”

“Only a bit.” John could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. “It was partly for John's benefit, too. He gets frustrated when I win by too much. Next time I won't hold back, I guess.”

Alexa laughed. “You'd better not! I can't remember the last time I had a worthy opponent at a game.”

“Haven't you got friends you play with? Some board game society at school?”

“Haven't got many friends at all, really,” Alexa said, and John recognised the tone of forced nonchalance that hid remorse. “I did have one, Marie. But she moved to Islington two years ago when her parents split up. We're still in touch but we don't see each other much, just sometimes when she comes to stay with her dad for a school break.”

“Islington's only a few miles from here,” Sherlock mentioned, and Alexa gasped.

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“What?” His husband was indignant. “It's geography.”

“I can't believe I didn't realize it myself,” Alexa said. “We're in Westminster, aren't we?”

John shared a cautious look with Mrs Hudson. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay? Keep in mind this visit is still just for Christmas.” Sherlock put on a show of being chastened, and Alexa deflated a little bit. John dried his hands. “Anyone fancy another game?”

“I've got to be going,” Mrs Hudson said. “But thank you for the game, and I'll see you all tomorrow afternoon.” She squeezed John's shoulder on her way to the stairs. “I hope those two don't wear you out.”

“They have already, but I can't seem to say no to Holmeses.”

Mrs Hudson chuckled as she left, and John went back to the sitting room where Sherlock was arranging brightly-coloured cards for a game of Set. John sighed – he wasn't brilliant at this game, and he had a feeling that Sherlock and Alexa would be too busy trying to impress one another to give him a moment to catch up with them.

He turned out to be partially right – they were both very quick, but they were slowed somewhat by an in-depth discussion of the statistics of the game, and once he figured out how to tune that out he was able to pick up a few points of his own. They played several games in quick succession, and when the fifth one ended, he glanced at his watch. “Six already. You two hungry?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not really.”

“I am,” Alexa said. “What's the plan?”

“I thought we could go out tonight,” John suggested. “Angelo's?”

Sherlock perked up at that. “It's been a while, hasn't it? And he won't be open tomorrow.”

“Should we head out then?”

“No, it's too warm today. The food will be better around seven,” Sherlock said.

That deduction obviously had a juicy tale attached, and John let Alexa be the one to ask about it, then half listened to the lengthy explanation while he retrieved his novel (spoiled by Sherlock the previous week, but still engaging) and settled down in his chair.

“That's brilliant,” Alexa breathed when Sherlock was done.

“Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised, and John smiled to himself.

“Yeah, it was fantastic! Do you do that all the time? Notice stuff and figure things out, I mean.”

“It _is_ my job,” Sherlock said. “My life's work is to see what others don't and make the connections they can't.” He shuffled the deck of cards and started setting them out again. “Shall we?”

The next hour passed quickly, John halfway in his book while Sherlock and Alexa talked about the science of deduction and picked up cards at a lightning pace. When seven arrived they packed up and put on their coats, and Sherlock had his phone to his ear as John pulled the front door shut behind them.

“Yes, hello, Angelo, it's Sherlock. Yes, it has been a while. No – no, three tonight. That's right, three. By the window is great. See you soon.”

The owner himself opened the door when they arrived. “Sherlock, John! Great to see you.”

“Angelo,” Sherlock said, “this is Alexa, my daughter. Alexa, Angelo. I helped him out a few years back.”

Angelo ushered them to the table in the window – already set with a candle and a bottle of John's favourite pinot noir – and set down the menus. “I didn't know you had a daughter.”

“Neither did I,” Sherlock said, taking off his coat. “But these things happen.”

Angelo laughed. “Yeah, they do, don't they? Your dad's a fine man, Alexa. If there's anything you want isn't on the menu, you just let me know.” He clapped John firmly on the shoulder before returning to his kitchen.

“Helped him out how?” Alexa asked.

Sherlock lowered his voice below the restaurant noise. “He was a suspect in a murder case. I proved his alibi.”

“Which was?”

“At the time of the murder, he was breaking and entering on the other side of town. He still went to prison, but he's never let me forget it.”

Alexa giggled, and John smiled as he poured wine for himself and Sherlock. “Angelo does make quite an introduction to Sherlock. We had our first date here and it was definitely memorable.”

“I thought you said it wasn't a date,” Sherlock challenged, swirling his wine before taking a sip.

“I did say that, though in retrospect it appears I was wrong and Angelo was right. Even though you let me down so gently; married to your work, remember?”

“It was the day after we met,” Sherlock explained to Alexa. “We were on a stakeout.”

“How romantic.”

John laughed. “Yeah, nothing says romance like chasing a cab for half a mile and then turning right around and running from the cops.”

“Oh, that was A Study in Pink!” Alexa said.

Sherlock cringed, and John beamed. “You really have read my blog, haven't you?”

“Of course I have, regularly ever since I found out about Dad. Pretty amazing stories on there.”

“It's not all as grand as John makes it out to be,” Sherlock said. “He has a flair for the dramatic.”

“That's rich, coming from you,” John scoffed.

“It all fits together, though,” Alexa said. “Since I've met you I'm believing the blog more and more. At first I figured there was a lot of hyperbole; nobody could do all that, right?”

“You'd be surprised,” John grinned.

“I do see it now, yeah,” she said. “So it's all true?”

He raised his glass to her, and she clinked her water against it. “Every word.”

 

 

They lingered over dinner, then dessert and coffee, laughing and sharing stories about John and Sherlock's adventures, and the minor scandals that went on between the boarders at Bournemouth Collegiate School. It was ten by the time they finally left, and Alexa and John were both yawning.

“What, tired so early?” Sherlock teased.

John shoved him gently with a shoulder as he turned his coat collar up against the icy rain that was periodically coming in sideways. “I'm stuffed with pasta, wine, and that chocolate monstrosity you just couldn't live without, of course I'm tired. Been a long day, too.”

“You're not the one who took a train to Bournemouth at an ungodly early hour.”

“Eight in the morning is not ungodly early. And _you're_ not the one who spent that entire time trying to make the flat presentable.”

“It _was_ presentable.”

“No it wasn't.”

“Okay, fine, enough,” Alexa said, worming her way between them to get out of the wind. “Eight is early and the flat wasn't presentable, unless eight _isn't_ early and the flat _was_ presentable.”

“I've either had too much or not enough wine to understand that,” John said, putting an arm around her shoulders.


	4. 24th December

John knew it was more than just the mulled wine that gave him that warm, satisfied feeling deep in his belly. He watched from across the room as Sherlock hesitantly reached for Alexa, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a peck on the cheek. They held one another gently for a moment before they released. “Ready for your first Christmas tomorrow?”

She grinned at him. “I think so. Good night, Dad.”

“Good night.”

She started up the stairs and Sherlock watched until she cleared the landing before he turned back to the sitting room, a dazed, blissful expression on his face. John felt like his heart could burst from happiness.

“She's lovely,” Molly said, handing Sherlock his mug.

He beamed at her as he went back to his chair. “She really is.”

“She seems pretty fond of you, too,” Greg said. “On your best behaviour? Trying to impress her?”

“She's a hard girl to impress,” John said, perching on the arm of Sherlock's chair and laying a hand on his shoulder. “A lot like this one. Seems we're managing all right, though.”

“You're doing brilliantly,” Mrs Hudson assured them. “I didn't know what to expect when you told me Sherlock had a daughter, and I'm so pleased you're getting along. It's so important that children have a family, and it's wonderful that you're giving it a shot with her.”

“I never thought I'd have a family of my own,” Sherlock murmured, gazing into his wine.

“Hasn't she got other family?” Molly asked. “On her mum's side?”

“Not really,” John said. “Her grandmother and some second cousins also live in Bournemouth, and she has an uncle in America, but she's not close with any of them; she's actually been boarding at school since she stopped living with her mum. Her mother was sort of the black sheep of the family.”

“Alexa's mother's family are Masorti Jews,” Sherlock explained. “But Rachel stopped practising when she left for university, and it went about as well as you'd expect.”

“I was wondering why you said it's her first Christmas,” Greg said thoughtfully. “I guess being Jewish explains it.”

“Is she going to meet the rest of your family, then?” Molly asked. “That would be quite a first Christmas, finding out you've got twice as much family as you did before.”

John nodded. “We're going out to his parents' for dinner tomorrow with the whole clan.”

Greg's eyebrows rose. “Good luck with that.”

“Cheers.”

“You don't think it's too soon?” Sherlock said. “I mean, to introduce her to everyone. She knows us pretty well now, but she only just lost her mum. It's a lot to throw at her. A lot of changes.”

“I think it's unavoidable,” John said softly. “We don't have that long to figure out if we want this to be permanent with us. It's one thing to go see her on the weekends, and to have her as a guest for Christmas, when we're all doing our best to be pleasant. I'm sure she's on her best behaviour too.” He sighed. “I'm worried, though. This right now, it isn't our real lives. How's she going to fit in when things go back to normal? With the work, and running off at a moment's notice, suddenly going away for days at a time. That's no way to be a parent.”

“Things haven't been like that recently,” Mrs Hudson commented. “You're more stable than you were, and you're even managing to fill in some hours at the clinic when they need you. Compared to a few years ago, you've both settled down a lot. And you know I'm willing to help out, when you need me.”

“That might work for us,” Sherlock said slowly, “but if we apply to be adopt her, they're going to look at us with an uncomfortable level of scrutiny, and I don't think they'd be too pleased with what they found. Even if it was all right, there's still the fact that we're a same-sex couple, and it _shouldn't_ matter, but it _does_. It's one more mark against us.”

There was a long pause before Molly cleared her throat. “You really want this to work, don't you?”

Sherlock nodded silently, avoiding everyone's eyes, and John bit his lip and exhaled forcefully through his nose before he spoke. “I didn't think I would care this much, but … suddenly I have the opportunity to be a father. An opportunity I thought I'd given up forever. And suddenly a damaged, abandoned girl drops into our laps, and how could we not fall in love with her? And I know I'm getting my hopes up, and I shouldn't, but … I just want this _so much_. I want something that normal people have, but I also don't want to lose this incredible whatever-this-is that I have with Sherlock, and I don't see a way to have both.” He glanced down at Sherlock, and gave an awkward self-conscious laugh. “God, look at us. Three months ago we didn't even know she existed.”

“And now it's hard to imagine being without her,” Sherlock finished. He leaned into John's leg with a miserable expression on his face.

“Hey, now,” Molly said, stepping around Mrs Hudson's knees to crouch in front of him. “I've never known you two to fall down in the face of a challenge. If anyone can find a way to make it work, it's you.”

John shook his head sadly. “We're too unconventional.”

“No, you're not! Not to her. Do you see the way she looks at you? She's just lost her mother, the only family she had. She's a horrible mess, but you're not just a chance at stability for her; she doesn't like you because she's desperate. She likes you because she likes _you_. She's seen how bad things are, how bad they can be for you, if only through the blog. She remembers Sherlock's disappearance, and she still wants to be part of your lives.”

John made eye contact with Sherlock, who had the decency to look abashed. “I'm still sorry.”

John sighed. “I know.”

Molly tried to smile. “My point is, she's not just any thirteen-year-old girl, she's seen a lot and she's very perceptive.”

“Thirteen and a half!” Sherlock said brightly in a perfect imitation, and the tension in the room shattered as they all failed to hold in their giggles.

“She's smart,” Molly continued, more relaxed. “She's _really_ smart. She knows what she needs, and she knows you could give it to her.” She gave Sherlock's knee a squeeze, and stood up. “So what did you get her for Christmas?”

“Oh gosh, that.” John took a sip of wine before he continued. “Did you know it's really hard to shop for kids her age?”

Sherlock smiled up at him. “Her grandmother told us she's been _begging_ for an e-reader, so we got her one of those and downloaded a whole bunch of classics onto it.”

“I do hope it's the model she wanted, after all that work you did.”

“She'll love it. She found the quick start guide in the pile of stuff on the table while you were out getting the shopping this afternoon.”

John's jaw dropped. “And where were you?”

“Composing. I pretended not to notice, but when she was done I told her she needs to be much sneakier when she's snooping in my house."

“Just what I needed, a miniature you.” John took his mug and went to the kitchen to get them both more wine. “I hope you told her to pretend to be surprised, for my sake.”

“I don't have to. The snooping wasn't malicious, just curious. She's very fond of you, John.”

“At least the feeling's mutual.” He handed Sherlock his mug, and pulled out a chair from the desk. “Did she find the other ones?”

He shook his head. “She knows better than to go looking in our bedroom.”

“What are the other ones?” Greg asked.

Sherlock smiled nervously. “Not much, really. Her own key to the flat, since we've decided to apply to adopt her. And I got her some ...” He waved his hand. “Boring paperwork.”

“Don't diminish it like that, it's a big deal.” John gave him an encouraging smile. “Sherlock is offering to change her name right away, to make her a Holmes.”

Molly and Greg both looked delighted, and Mrs Hudson sat forward in her chair. “Oh, Sherlock, that's lovely.”

“I thought she was already named Holmes?” Greg said.

“It's her middle name,” John explained. “Alexa Holmes Bradbury. He's offering to shuffle it, Alexa Bradbury Holmes. Not completely sure how she'll take it though. It's only been a few months since she lost her mother, I don't know if she'll want to give up her surname.”

“Besides which,” Sherlock added, “if she does change it, but then it turns out she can't live with us ...”

“She knows the risk,” John reassured him. “She won't rush into anything without thinking it through twice as thoroughly as anyone else. She's already a Holmes by nature, if not by name.”

“What was her mother like?” Molly asked, and then clapped a hand to her mouth when all eyes fell on her. “Oh, god, sorry.”

“It's all right,” Sherlock said, shaking his head, though he shifted a little uncomfortably. “I only knew Rachel for a couple of months. It was right after I'd graduated from university and started that master's program at Bart's, and I was trying to figure myself out, sort of going to school and sort of not. That was in September of 2001, and when the terrorist attacks on New York happened, everything got sort of topsy-turvy. Lots of people re-evaluating their lives, things like that. We all did a lot of thinking; I'm sure it was the same for all of you. It was a couple weeks later that a young woman in my research group introduced me to Rachel, who was a few years older than me, apparently a friend of hers. Now that I know the whole truth, I'm sure she knew Rachel was looking for more than someone to feel close to while we were all trying not to be afraid.” He sighed. “At any rate, I was bored, and feeling alone, and she was bright, and she knew how to get me interested. It was long enough after the mess with Sebastian that I'd begun thinking of experimenting with sex again, and it was a relief not to have to try and find a partner on my own.”

John finished his wine and stood up. “Can I get anyone another drink?”

Sherlock gave him a gentle smile. “John hates this part; it makes him jealous.”

“I'm not jealous of someone you shagged before we met.”

“I thought you weren't interested in women,” Greg said, confused.

“I'm not, not really,” Sherlock said, “but at the time I didn't trust myself, and I wanted to be sure.

“Anyway, Rachel was interested in me, and said she would help me learn, that I could experiment with her, and she wasn't looking for a relationship or anything, just casual sex. In retrospect, I should have been suspicious – I was very unpleasant at the time, and I'm sure she didn't really enjoy spending time with me, but there's no point in having regrets. We had sex fairly regularly for about eight weeks, and then she stopped calling me, so I figured that was it and went on with life. We didn't date, and I didn't get to know her very well, but she was an intellectual and she liked puzzles, so at least we had something to talk about in between the shagging. She wasn't terribly dull, but I didn't miss her when she left.” He shrugged. “That's it. Because of her I figured out I was actually gay, and I didn't think about her again until we got the letter in October.”

“Someday we'll have to ask Alexa about her,” John said, coming back from the kitchen. “Not yet, though. It's still too soon.”

“I think she'll tell us herself when she's ready. She's almost mentioned her a couple of times, but she changes her mind.”

“Poor girl,” Mrs Hudson said. “She's been through an awful lot recently.”

“That reminds me,” John added, “I want to be sure she's seeing a therapist.”

“Really?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You hate therapists.”

“I hate going to therapy, there's a difference. Besides, there's nothing wrong with me.”

He snorted. “I've heard that before.”

“You don't go disappearing again and I'll be fine. But seriously, I think it would help her to have someone to talk to.”

“She already does.”

“She told you?”

“Please, John, I noticed. She goes to a good school, and they always have people. She's just lost her mother, so of course she'll be seeing someone, even if it's just the counsellor at BCS. And I've seen her a couple of times using calming techniques she most likely learned from a mental health professional.” He levelled his gaze at John. “You can say it if you want to.”

John sighed. “You're right, of course.”

“Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't see it yourself. You're the one who's been to therapy.”

“Okay, that's enough talking about me. Anyone for a game of cards?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Greg perked up at the mention and the four of them set up around the table while Sherlock picked up his violin again. John glanced up to see him looking out the window at the snow that was beginning to fall, and then he put bow to strings and began working through the beginning of his latest composition, picking out a few harmonies in double stops as he went.

“Duet?”

Sherlock met his eye, smiled, and winked.


	5. 25th December

John woke on Christmas morning to absolutely the best thing he could have imagined, and after a satisfyingly sweaty and breathless half hour he reluctantly got out of bed, and just remembered to put on a robe before he went into the bathroom to clean up.

Cleaning up turned into a rather long shower, and by the time he got back to the bedroom Sherlock was cocooned in blankets again and drooling on his pillow. John took a long moment to appreciate the sight, then pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms and a long-sleeved tee before stuffing his feet into slippers and shuffling out into the hall.

The smell of wood smoke hit him first, followed by the sweet tang of coffee, and a look around revealed Alexa lounging in Sherlock's chair, knitting away at something in rainbow stripes. “Good morning,” she said. “There's a cup of coffee on the table for you.”

He blinked, still not quite awake, and managed to mumble “thanks” as he made his way into the kitchen and found the mug of steaming liquid. He took a tentative taste – not bad at all. Actually better than when Sherlock made it. He went back into the living room and sank into his own chair in front of the fireplace. “Since when do you know how to make coffee?”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that like it's some sort of complicated process. I do know how to take the lid off a jar of Nescafe. Add hot water, boom, coffee.”

“Well, typically without the _boom_ ,” John said, taking another drink. “Except sometimes when your father makes it.”

“He's exploded coffee crystals?”

“I think that's a story for him to tell you.”

Alexa smiled and made an amused sound, and her needles never stopped moving.

“What's that you're knitting?”

She held up the multicoloured tube. “Hat for Mummy Holmes. Think she'll like it?”

John wasn't sure what to say. The thing was endearingly atrocious, but not in the florals-and-flags manner of the Holmes family home. “I … I'm sure she'll love it.”

Alexa laughed and went back to knitting. “Dad was right; you _are_ a terrible liar.”

John flushed. “Fine. It's very nice, but she'd probably accidentally drop it in the fire ...” His eyes focussed to his left, where for the first time he properly noticed the fire merrily burning in the grate and producing the comforting smoke smell he'd noticed a few minutes before. “You lit the fireplace.”

“Again, not so difficult. People have been doing that even longer than they've been making instant coffee, believe it or not.”

John blinked and returned his gaze to her work. “Are you seriously going to give that to your grandmother?”

“Seriously, no. I might pretend, just to see what happens.”

“I see. I'll do my best to play along, shall I?”

“Thanks. I'm trying to make a first impression.”

“That'll be a first for the Holmes clan, they're usually the ones catching people off-guard. Did I ever tell you about the first time I met your Uncle Mycroft?”

She shook her head, so he went on. “It was the day after I met Sherlock, actually. He had dashed off after a serial killer, so I was walking to try and catch a cab, and suddenly all the public phones I passed started ringing. In a restaurant here, a boot there, and they all stopped when I passed them or if someone else went to answer. Finally I picked one up, and I heard him on the other end – only I didn't know who he was yet – and he moved some security cameras and told me to get in the scary black car that had just pulled up.”

Alexa's needles had stilled and she was looking at him with intense interest. “So you got in the car.”

He nodded. “Hard to refuse. Took me to this big empty underground car park where he was waiting for me. He offered to pay me to spy on Sherlock, and made a bunch of insinuations, generally freaked me out by knowing almost as much about me as Sherlock had deduced when we first met.”

“Did you take the money?”

“No, though your father scolded me for it later. I didn't know who he was, but I had apparently decided that I was on Sherlock's side, so the car brought me back here. Later that evening after we'd caught the murderer, Mycroft showed up again and had a little pissing match with Sherlock. That was when I found out who he was. Sort of an anticlimax.”

“I can imagine. I suppose you thought he was a criminal mastermind, like Moriarty or something.”

A chill ran through John, and he steeled himself, gripping the coffee cup with both hands. “Yeah, something like that.”

Alexa looked at him closely. “Have I upset you?”

“It's just....” John sighed. “I don't like remembering Moriarty, what he put us through. He was the reason for the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

She nodded, understanding. “Dad's fake suicide.”

John let a breath out through his nose and nodded brusquely. “Yeah. Plus one time he strapped a bomb to me.”

“Oh, I remember that from the blog. What did you call it?”

He shook his head with a wry smile. “I can't remember every detail I put on the blog.” He got up to make another cup of coffee. “Can I make you one of these? Or some tea?”

“Had one already, thanks. And my hands are a bit full.”

“Right.” He scooped a generous spoonful of crystals into the cup, and turned the kettle on again. “So, you knit? Well, obviously.”

She picked up the hat again. “Yeah. Gran taught me about a year ago during some sort of last-ditch let's-be-a-family thing. That didn't take, but the knitting did. I like it, it's pretty amazing to take something essentially one-dimensional and manipulate it into something three-dimensional and useful, using only sticks and your wits.”

John chuckled. “I should have known it would be something like that. Not enough to find it calming, or to like the colours or how soft it is?”

“I like those things too. But they're not as interesting as topology.”

“Of course.” He poured the water, gave the coffee a stir, then came back to his seat and watched her work for a few minutes. “Will that be done by the time we leave for your grandparents' at one?”

“Oh, sure. I'm practically done.”

“How long does one of those take?”

“Why, do you want one?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

“I've never timed it, but at this gauge, maybe eight hours? Ten?”

“So you've put rather a lot of time into something you never thought she'd actually like.”

“Oh, it was never meant to be a gift. Dad told me a while ago that the best thing any of us could possibly give his parents is a grandchild, and I've got existence pretty well figured out, so I think we're good. Maybe just wear a bow on my head to top it off.”

John smiled. “Why the hat, then?”

She shrugged. “I started it for myself a few weeks ago. Gran and I went yarn shopping after Mum's funeral, and I fell in love with this. Knitting is really the only thing I have in common with her.” She stopped working, held it up and looked at it critically for a moment, and then resumed. “It just occurred to me a couple days ago that I could pretend to give it to my new grandmother, and when she hates it, I'll wear it myself. So I look like the sweet granddaughter who made something, even if it was misguided, and I get to keep my hat.”

John paused as her wall of words sank in. God, she was just like Sherlock, wasn't she? He changed the subject. “That's the first time you've mentioned anything about your mum to me.”

She considered for a moment. “Yeah.”

John wasn't sure to make of that, so he changed directions again. “I'm really glad you're spending Christmas with us. It's all a bit strange, but we're happy you're here. Makes us feel like a proper family instead of just a couple of blokes and our landlady. Not that I didn't like that, but … you know what I mean?”

She nodded. “A bit. I mean, I never did Christmas before. Whole Jewish thing. But Hanukkah's kind of similar, and I went through the motions with Gran this year on a couple of nights, but it didn't feel right. Not like it did with Mum. But I like this, being here. I feel like a normal kid.” She looked at him, and smiled sadly. “Well, sort of, anyway. I guess this is as normal as I can hope to be. In the space of a few months I've gone from having a terminally ill single mum and a grandmother who doesn't like me, to now having a dad, a stepfather, an uncle, more grandparents, and a Mrs Hudson, not to mention your other friends.”

“That is a big change, isn't it.”

“Yeah. It's taking some getting used to, but it's not bad.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while longer, Alexa nearing completion of her hat, and John nearing completion of his cup of coffee. They both looked up when the bedroom door opened, and a very groggy Sherlock appeared, wearing only a collection of darkening love bites down the entire length of his pale body.

“Dad!” Alexa exclaimed in horror.

“Sherlock! Company!”

He waved a dismissive hand at them, yawning widely as he went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Alexa buried her face in her knitting. “Oh my god. I'm going to die.” She removed her hands dramatically and glared at John. “Don't. Say. _Anything_. This never happened.”

He held up his hands in surrender and retreated quickly to the kitchen, ears burning. That was one thing that would _definitely_ have to change with another person in the flat.

“Hard enough to ignore the noise,” Alexa muttered under her breath.

John wanted to melt into the floor. He settled for making far more noise than necessary while he started fixing breakfast.

 

 

Sherlock strolled into the kitchen twenty minutes later, clad now in pyjamas and a dressing gown, and made a beeline for the kettle. “Good morning,” he yawned, plopping a teabag into a mug. “So how's this going to work? Breakfast first, or presents?”

“Breakfast now,” John said, gesturing to the table. “Do you want any eggs, or just toast?”

“Have we got any beans?”

“No, sorry. Ran out last week and we keep forgetting to buy them.”

Sherlock poured nearly-boiling water into his mug and sat next to Alexa at the table. “Just toast then.”

John gestured to the table with his elbow. “In the rack.” He turned off the hob and fished his eggs out of the pot, then joined the other two at the table. “How were those eggs, Alexa?”

She nodded around a mouthful of toast. “Really good, just the right amount of squidgy. I always overcook them. Is there a secret?”

John chuckled as he lopped the top off one of his. “Impatience.”

“Speaking of,” Sherlock said, “you need to eat faster, we've got presents to open.”

“Yeah, all right, calm down. It may be Alexa's first Christmas but none of us are six years old.”

“Speak for yourself.” Sherlock fished the bag out of his tea, took a sip, made a face, and put it back in.

John caught Alexa's eye, and they both smirked while they tried not to giggle. “Hard to believe you're forty in two weeks,” John teased.

Sherlock had switched breakfast gears and was spreading butter on a slice of toast now. “And you're forty-five in the spring. Age is just a number.”

“You say that now, wait until you throw your back out for the first time. I'll remember to laugh in your face when you're lying in a puddle and trying not to cry while the serial killer gets away.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Turnabout is fair play. I'm pretty sure the Hippocratic Oath has a footnote regarding impossible husbands.”

Sherlock stuck out his tongue and Alexa giggled. “We don't do too much running around any more,” John admitted. “My fall was sort of the nail in the coffin.”

“I didn't laugh in his face, by the way,” Sherlock added, and took an enormous bite of his toast.

“No, you just kept running,” John said. “It would have been a little less insulting if you had caught him.”

“Do we have more bread?” Sherlock got up and started rummaging on the counter top.

“In the fridge.”

“You can't end the story there,” Alexa insisted.

“I didn't catch him because he got out into a crowd while I was answering my phone.” Sherlock opened the refrigerator door, glanced at the contents, and closed it again before returning to his seat. “Honestly I didn't even notice when John went down. But I believe I was properly concerned when I came back and found you.”

John gave him an indulgent smile. “Yes, well done, you. I don't believe I've ever seen you look quite so helpless.”

“Alexa, are you done eating? I think it's time for presents.”

John chuckled and cleared off the table before joining father and daughter in the living room. Towards the end of the party the night before, their guests had helped them set up and decorate a small artificial tree, that now stood in the centre of the table, surrounded by a small collection of parcels. “Sherlock, why don't you be Father Christmas.” John arranged himself on one end of the couch, and Alexa settled in the chair in front of the window, watching her father expectantly.

Sherlock studied the presents under the tree for a moment, then picked a lumpy one wrapped in brown paper and handed it to John. “From Alexa. Are we going to do deductions this year?”

John rolled his eyes. “Must we? That's really more of a you-and-Mycroft thing.”

Alexa bounced in her seat. “Oh, let's!”

He sighed and turned the package over in his hands. “You two have an unfair advantage I think.” He squeezed it gently. “It's soft but there are some hard bits. Pencils?” He shrugged. “I really am awful at this.”

“Come on, John, you know how it's done.”

“This is officially a tradition now, isn't it?” He gave up and pulled the paper open, revealing a ball of blue and grey yarn with two very small bits of knitted fabric. “Oh. It's …. Huh.”

“Guess!” Alexa prompted.

He picked up the fabric bits gingerly. They were tenuously connected by what he was pretty sure were knitting needles, and he was suddenly very afraid he'd do something to ruin it. “Well, ah … it's knitting, that much at least is obvious. And there are two, so something that comes in a pair. And I've never seen anything like this in my life.”

“I'll give you a hint,” she said, leaning forward. “They're not done.”

“I'd gathered, but I really have no idea.”

“Here, hold up your foot.” She took the work from him as he propped one foot on the coffee table, and slipped one of the things over the end of his toes. “Proto-socks! I'm sorry they're not done, but I only started last night. I think I can get them finished in about a month, if your feet aren't too big.”

John was speechless for a moment. “Alexa, I … thank you. Really, truly thank you. No one's ever made me socks before.”

“You like the colour? It'll work up as stripes.”

“It's lovely. I'll be afraid to wear them, in case I ruin them.”

“They'll be hard to ruin, I promise. They say this yarn is practically indestructible. And even if it's not I can always repair them. Or make more.” She looked over at Sherlock, who had pulled the other chair up to the end of the table, and was watching them with unmistakable fondness. “Do yours now.”

He took the other brown package off the table. It was larger than John's, but more approximately rectangular. He squeezed it and it crinkled. “Soft, as expected. I don't feel anything hard inside, but there's a little resistance here that could be a bit of cardboard.” He glanced at her. “I'm sure I'm right in guessing there's a pattern to your gifts, and that this is some sort of proto-garment, as you called it. Possibly still just yarn, since I don't feel any needles.”

“Open it and see.”

He pulled the paper off the yarn, which was subtly shaded in blues and greens. “It's very soft,” Sherlock said, sounding impressed, and found the label. “Pashmina; wool, silk, and cashmere.”

“John said you like luxury fibres,” she said. “I've had this for a bit, and then when I met you I realized it would be a perfect scarf for you. We can pick out a pattern together, though I have a couple in mind.”

Sherlock's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked between the wool in his hands and the girl who watched him eagerly, and delicately ran his fingers over the strands. Finally he swallowed, and his voice was hoarse with poorly-contained emotion. “It matches your eyes.”

She gave him a lopsided smile. “Now I know where I got them from.”

He was silent a while longer. “This might be the nicest thing anyone's ever given me.”

John smiled and crossed his arms. “Really.”

Sherlock blinked and visibly returned to the moment. “Well, among the nicest. Certainly one of the most thoughtful. Most people just --”

“He means _thank you_.”

“Yes, sorry, very much. Thank you, Alexa.” He stood, she rose to meet him, and they embraced for a moment. “I think it's your turn now.” He picked up a rectangular package in festive paper and handed it to her.

“As big as a book,” she said, turning it over, “but too light. And the mass is unevenly distributed, so it's something in a package that's mostly air. Most devices come like that, partly for protection and partly for presentation.” She glanced up at John. “It's not going to fall out and break when I open the box, like that guy with the iPhone 6?”

John grinned. “Why are you asking me?”

She held it up. “It's got your handwriting on it.”

“It's from both of us,” he explained. “It's just that wrapping always seems to fall to me. Go ahead, open it.”

She pulled the paper off, and her face lit up with genuine happiness, if not surprise. “It's just the one I wanted!”

Sherlock shared a knowing smile with John. “Of course.”

She opened the box and removed the device from its plastic cradle. “It's fully charged,” John said, “and we've loaded it with a bunch of public domain classics already. Plus you've got some credit in the online shop.”

“It's fantastic!” She was already scrolling through the menu. “Great picks with the classics, I've been meaning to read most of these. And this model can do PDFs really easily, so I can put knitting patterns on it too.”

“If I didn't know better I'd say we'd done our research,” John said.

“It's really perfect,” Alexa said, beaming at them. “Thank you so much.”

“I think it's time for another one for John,” Sherlock said, retrieving a very small box in shiny green paper. He stepped over the coffee table and sat on the couch as he presented it. “This is from me.”

John raised his eyebrows as he took it. “I would say something, but I don't want to jinx it. Thank you.”

“You haven't opened it yet. Give it a guess first.”

John shook the box. “Nothing moving. A bit heavy, though, so not a ten-pound note in a recycled box.”

“You don't have to bring that up every time.”

“Of course I do, especially since Alexa's here to hear it. That was by far the most pointless gift ever, since we'd been sharing finances for years anyway. At least you seem to have figured it out after that.”

“Not many people deserve my effort in that area.”

John grinned at him. “Can I stop playing your game and open it?”

“Go on, then.”

John pulled the paper off to reveal a black velvet box that looked suspiciously like it came from a jeweller. He raised wide eyes to Sherlock's. “You didn't.”

“Open it.”

The box opened with a little creak, and John found himself staring down a pair of silver bands. “Oh my god.”

Sherlock carefully removed one ring from its slot. “They're made of tungsten carbide, all but indestructible. Which means you won't be able to change the engraving.”

John put his fingers over Sherlock's and held it up to the light. “Property of Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock took his left hand and slid it onto his finger. It resisted a bit at the knuckle, but he beamed when it went the rest of the way on. “Do me now.”

John remembered to breathe as he pulled the second ring from the box. “Property of John H. Watson,” he read, before sliding it onto Sherlock's slim finger. “So I guess this means we're coming out.”

“That was my hope.”

“Right, okay.” John blew out a breath, and stared at their hands for a long moment. “I don't suppose this occurred to you, but it comes up in A&E sometimes. If you ever bash your hand you need to take it off right away; if your finger swells and it gets stuck, they can't cut it off because it's too hard.”

“I didn't realize you knew about tungsten carbide.”

“Mike's told me a horror story or two. It's rare but finger amputations tend to stick with you.”

“As lovely as the medical talk is,” Alexa interrupted, “do you want me to take a photo? To commemorate the occasion?”

“As long as it doesn't go on the blog,” Sherlock said.

“I'm not dressed,” John protested.

“You look fine. At least you've shaved.”

“At least I'm not _naked_. We're going to discuss that later, by the way.”

“I told you that never happened,” Alexa said sternly as she got out her mobile. “Hold hands or something, to make it cute.”

“Should we figure out a way of showing the rings?” Sherlock asked, putting the box on the table and brandishing his left hand in the air.

“There's all sorts of things wedding photographers do,” John said, trying a couple of awkward poses. “Not that I have the faintest idea what any of them _are_.”

“What if we ...” Sherlock took John's left hand, held it awkwardly for a moment, and then tried to duck under his arm.

John laughed. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock blushed. “I honestly don't know.”

John pulled him into a quick kiss, which turned into one a bit longer and deeper, before he remembered himself and glanced over at Alexa. “Sorry.”

“No, it's fine.” She turned the phone around and handed it to him. “I got some cute ones. Candid is better than posed, anyway.”

He smiled as he swiped through the pictures, Sherlock watching over his shoulder. It didn't take long, and they looked up at her when John handed it back. “Good shots,” Sherlock said. “Text them to me?”

“Sure.” She retrieved the phone and sent them with a few deft taps, then stuck it back in her pocket. “One for Dad now?”

“I'm afraid it's not as good,” John said as she took the box off the table and passed it across to Sherlock.

“It's in a bigger box, for whatever that's worth,” he said, weighing it on his hands and then shaking gently. “Typical shirt box size. Feels like clothing.”

John smirked at him. “Keep going.”

He lifted it to his face and gave a big sniff along the seam in the paper. “It's been in the flat for a while but there's still a hint of a smell.” He inhaled again, and his brow furrowed. “It smells like my tailor.”

“Mr Jacobsen has a smell?”

“His shop does. That wax he uses on his button thread is particularly pungent when it's fresh.”

John looked surprised. “I hadn't noticed.”

“Well, you wouldn't, would you,” Sherlock said absently, re-focussing his attention on the parcel and ignoring John's stormy expression. “Either you've had something mended, or it's new shirts and you've had them tailored.”

“What do you mean, _I wouldn't_?”

Sherlock blinked at him, confused. “What?”

“You said I wouldn't have noticed that Mr Jacobsen's wax is pungent.”

“No, and you haven't, either. Your sense of smell isn't particularly acute.”

John bristled. “And I suppose yours is?”

“Why do you think I'm forever lifting things to my face? It's an indispensable tool for detective work.”

“So you're saying that because I'm not constantly sticking my nose in things, I must have a poor sense of smell?”

“That's not the only indication, but it is one.”

“For what it's worth,” Alexa cut in hesitantly, “I think I'm a super smeller too. I can always smell things that other people can't, and they act like I'm crazy when I mention it.”

They both turned to look at her, startled out of their argument. “What sorts of things can you smell?” Sherlock asked.

She shrugged. “I don't know, useless things mostly. Like if milk has come up to room temperature and then been put back in the fridge. Or if someone's got a cold sore in their mouth, I can smell those a mile away.”

John looked mildly horrified. “That's ... disgusting.”

“Revolting.” She pointed at the package that was still in Sherlock's hands. “Christmas, Dad.”

“Oh, right.” He pulled the paper off, and smiled when he opened the lid. “Oh, these are lovely.”

“I know you prefer ones that have a little pattern to them,” John said. “These are actually bespoke, I picked out the fabrics and Mr Jacobsen made them for you.”

Sherlock took all three shirts out of the box, then unfolded one and held it up. “They really are beautiful. I can't wait to wear them, thank you.” He gave John a chaste kiss, then looked back towards their little tree. “One more for you, Alexa, from both of us.”

She picked up the small box and gave it a tentative shake. “Is it okay if I just open it instead of guessing? I'm really excited and the deduction thing takes forever.”

John laughed. “Go ahead.”

She tore the paper and opened the box to find a key on a ring with a plastic sheep attached. “Oh, it's cute!” She lifted it out of the tissue. “What does it open?”

“Your new front door,” Sherlock said with a grin, and John beamed at both of them.

She looked up at them in surprise, and it took her a moment to find any words. “What do you mean, my new front door?”

Sherlock leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Alexa, if you'll have us, we'd like very much to be your parents.”

She looked awestruck down at the key in her hand, and then back up at them. “This opens the front door? Like, the one downstairs? Next to the cafe?”

Sherlock nodded proudly, and John took his hand. “Our home is yours, if you want it.”

“Oh my god, I do, thank you!” She hopped across the coffee table and crashed a hug into both of them simultaneously.

“Now, of course, it does come with a few stipulations,” John said, brushing her hair out of his face. “We're not your guardians right now, and there's quite a bit of paperwork to do, and it's possible our application won't be accepted.”

She sat back on the coffee table and shook her head. “I don't care.”

“You may also want to reserve your decision until you've met the rest of the Holmes clan this evening,” Sherlock said warily, and Alexa laughed.

“You talk like they're some kind of monsters! You've met my Gran. As long as my new grandparents don't slam me with Jewish guilt I think I can handle it.”

“Well, if you're sure,” John said coyly, “there is something else in the bottom of the box. Something special, just from your dad.”

“What, really?” She picked it up, lifted out the tissue, and unfolded the papers. Her face went slack with surprise as she read. “Oh my god, are you serious?”

"Very," he said evenly. "Of course, I do understand if you need some time to think about it."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, I ... I'm gonna have to think about it for a while."

"Take your time. And, you know, if you decide not to, that's okay too."

She looked back up at him, and gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Dad. And even if I wind up not changing my name, it means a lot to me, that you're offering."

"What's mine is yours," he said simply. "House, name, everything. As much as you want. We'll always be here for you."

She let out a little laugh through her nose, and a tear slid down her cheek. She moved easily into his offered embrace, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Merry Christmas, Alexa."


	6. 27th December

Christmas dinner with the Holmes family went as well as any of them could have hoped, and the days that followed went by in a happy haze, the three of them moving easily around each other in the flat. Alexa made a small project of tidying the kitchen, and eventually decided it was good enough and impressed both Sherlock and John by spending an afternoon hard at work making a shepherd's pie.

They ate together in the kitchen, then made plans to spend the rest of the evening watching one of John's favourite action movies that Sherlock had come around to in recent months.

Sherlock's phone rang while John was making popcorn, and he went into their bedroom to answer it. He emerged a few minutes later, excited and distracted. "John, get your coat." He blew through the kitchen, thumbs tapping madly on his phone.

John gave up his search for a popcorn bowl and turned in time to see Sherlock pull on his coat and start out into the hall. "What? Why?"

"Got a case," came the response. "That was Lestrade. Found a fresh body, only dead a couple hours, no ID, no clear cause of death. Come on, he's sending a car and it'll be here any minute."

"Now hold on!" John strode angrily to the door, but his outrage was dimmed by the fact that Sherlock was already halfway down the stairs and watching him expectantly.

"But we were going to watch a movie!" Alexa was behind John's shoulder, and Sherlock's steely gaze softened just a little when it landed on her.

"Go ahead and watch it," he said. "We've seen it before."

"That's not the point," she complained, but her expression shifted from petulance to apprehension as Sherlock came back up the steps and used his height to full advantage.

"Alexa," he said, "I've told you: this is my job. And the work _always_ comes first. It always has, and it always will." He shifted his focus to John. "Get your coat. I need you."

John felt like he was being torn in two, but he made the choice he always made -- _damn it_ , the one he knew he would always make -- and he pulled his coat from its hook and shrugged it on. "I'm sorry," he said to Alexa, who looked like she might cry. "But this is what we do. We have to go."

"When will you be back?"

John bit his lip. "Never can tell. I'll try not to be too late though, I've got a shift at the clinic tomorrow." He laid a hand on her arm, but she shrugged it away. "Mrs Hudson is home if you need anything, or if you want to watch with her."

She nodded mutely, and after a last guilty look he followed Sherlock down the stairs and into the waiting patrol car. Once they were in and underway, he let his frustration out. "That was a shitty thing to do to Alexa."

Sherlock was absorbed in his phone. "It was necessary."

John's rage flared, and he snatched the device from Sherlock's hands. "You could have handled it better!"

Sherlock's mouth had fallen open in shock. "How?" he demanded. "By letting her tag along? I didn't think you approved of that. Especially with this one; I didn't want to say in front of her, but the victim is a young woman, and apparently still warm as of half an hour ago."

"Of course I don't want her to come along!" John spat. "But you don't have to be so cold! We abandoned her."

"Mrs Hudson is there, it's not like she's alone."

"You know what I mean."

"This is one of those _politeness_ things, isn't it?" Sherlock said. "Where I'm supposed to go through the motions of social niceties."

"Yes, it is a _politeness thing._ It's also a not-being-a-dick thing. Most people at least show a little regret when they break plans with someone they like."

"I'm not _most people_." Sherlock grabbed his phone back. "You know that better than anyone."

It was the same old argument, but like every time before, John knew it was true. He let out a sigh that was equal parts defeat and disappointment. "You said you loved her, Sherlock. I guess I thought you meant it, that she was special to you. Like I am."

Sherlock's fingers stilled, and his voice was softer. "No one is like you, John."

"Could she be? Do you actually, genuinely care for her? Or were you lying? Is she just an amusement to you?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, staring at his hands. "I don't know," he finally whispered.

John turned to watch London go past, and his heart ached.

 

 

It was just past midnight when John returned to Baker Street, still high on adrenaline and wishing he hadn't had to leave the chase. The case was progressing quickly -- he had no doubt Sherlock would have it in the bag by dawn -- but he needed to sleep before his shift at the clinic.

He climbed the seventeen steps to the quiet flat. The grate was cold, and the only light left on was the one above the sink in the kitchen, where the dishes were clean and drying in the rack.

John hung up his jacket, then carefully climbed the stairs to the second story bedroom. The door was ajar, and Alexa shifted in bed as he pushed it open enough to poke his head in.

"Dad?"

"No, it's me," John said. "I'm home now, just checking in. Need anything?"

"No." She rubbed her eyes with one hand and half sat up. "What time is it?"

John checked his phone. "Quarter past midnight. Go back to sleep. I'll be up about six and leaving for work at seven, if you want to ... you know, have breakfast."

"What about Dad?"

John sighed. "Can't say. But I'll let you know when I hear from him."

"Okay." Alexa laid back down and pulled the blankets up to her chin. "Good night, John."

"Good night." He turned away from the door, and the exhaustion hit him as he made his way back down the stairs and through the kitchen, switching off the light as he went. Sherlock wasn't going to be coming home that night. He changed quickly into his pyjamas, brushed his teeth, and crawled into the big, empty bed. He stared at his phone in the dark, willing it to ring, and it was a long time before sleep came to him.

 

 

John ended up staying at the clinic for two hours after he was scheduled to have left, and five hours after his phone's battery died while he was hastily replying to Sherlock's text in between patients -- "Lestrade needs your statement" was all it said. John was all set to give Sherlock the full force of his sleep deprived wrath when the phone went dark and flashed the low battery icon. John all but banged his head on the counter -- of course last night would be the one time he forgot to plug the bloody thing in to charge.

He finally made it home, exhausted and hungry and still angry at Sherlock, but all of that faded a little when he opened the door and heard the violin music coming from upstairs. It was a piece he wasn't familiar with, and was unsure what this said about Sherlock's mood.

He froze when he got into the sitting room and the musician was not Sherlock at all, but Alexa. She glanced at him and smiled, pausing in her playing. "Welcome home. I figured you'd be hungry so I opened a tin of soup and put it on. Should be warm by now."

"Uh, thanks," he said, still trying to wrap his head around everything. "Is your dad home?"

"Yeah." She brought the violin -- Sherlock's violin -- back to her shoulder. "Got home about an hour ago complaining that you weren't answering your phone."

"Yeah," John said, fishing it out of his pocket. "Battery died."

"I'd figured. Well, I'd hoped. He seemed to think you were cross with him." She plucked at a string. "I think he's taking a nap. He looked really worn out, and it's been quiet in there for like forty-five minutes. You should go wake him and we'll have lunch together." She set bow to strings and returned her attention to the music, turning her back to John, which made him feel shunned and deeply guilty.

He hung his coat on its peg, then cautiously went to the bedroom and opened the door. Sure enough, Sherlock was sprawled on the bed, fast asleep, and still fully dressed but for his shoes which lay on the floor beside the bed, carelessly dropped after being kicked off.

John sat and placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock twitched and grunted and his eyes snapped open, then blinked groggily. "John?"

"Yeah. Just got home from the surgery."

"Thought your shift was only until noon."

"Ran long."

Sherlock sat up, and frowned at his wrinkled clothes. "Too busy to answer my calls?"

John sighed. "You know I can't take personal calls while I'm at work. And besides, my battery died." He held up the offending gadget, then walked over to the bureau to plug it in. "So how was your night? Get everything figured out?"

Sherlock was up, and traded his jacket and wrinkled button-up for a t-shirt and his wool dressing gown. "It was fairly simple, in the end." He yawned. "I bit tedious, really." He paused, listening. "Alexa's playing my violin."

"Yes, she is. And she's heating up some tinned soup for lunch. Come eat with us."

Within five minutes they were all sitting around the table with bowls of passable minestrone. Alexa convinced Sherlock to tell her about the night's case, and he barely needed any prodding to launch into a dramatic recollection of the adventure. He was still going strong when John collected their dishes and took them to the sink, then put the kettle on. The soup had been all right, but nothing brought him back after a rough day like a good cup of tea, and he figured Sherlock would need one too after the night he'd had. He halfway listened to the story -- now into the bits he hadn't been there for -- and the tale ended just as he brought the three mugs into the sitting room.

"Wow," Alexa breathed. "Do you think you're going to write up this case for the blog, John?"

He shrugged, and took a sip of tea. "Maybe. Not right away, though. Oh, and Sherlock, I did get one text from you, Lestrade wants a statement from me?"

"I convinced him it could wait until later, though I expect he'll come around later this afternoon."

John groaned and held his mug a little tighter. "I really wish I didn't have to deal with any more of this today. I'm exhausted."

"Why?" Sherlock sounded genuinely confused. "You weren't out very late at all."

"I ... I didn't sleep well," John admitted. "I was mad -- I'm still mad at you, a bit."

Sherlock had a moment of realization, then looked ashamed. "Oh."

Alexa stood up suddenly. "I'll just let you--"

"No," John interrupted, but caught himself and softened his voice. "No, Alexa, it's all right, you can stay. This is probably something we should all talk about anyway."

Alexa sat back down uneasily.

"I want to apologize for last night," Sherlock said. "That was callous of me. I'm used to dashing off with John. I'm used to him being the only person who matters." He turned a little pink and looked into his tea. "I spent all last night thinking about that. And I do feel bad about that, about leaving like I did. I realize the things I've told you recently are ... contradictory to what my actions said last night." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "What I'm trying to say is I'm sorry. I do care about you. You matter to us, and we love you."

Alexa turned bright red. "I ... um, thanks," she stammered, clearly caught off-guard by the outright declaration of love. "But, you know, I get that your work is really important, so that's, you know. Okay. That you had to go." She made a little face and scratched her ear before looking up at him. "You're really going to use the L word?"

Sherlock laughed. "We'll use it every day until you believe it, if we have to."

She looked to John, who gave her a reassuring smile. "We'll do better at not letting you doubt it, too."

"I'll still have to leave on cases suddenly," Sherlock said. "But you understand, it's not because we don't care about you. It's the nature of the job."

She nodded. "No, I get it, I do. Sorry, it's just going to take a little getting used to."

"There'll be some of that for all of us," he said. "But we'll get there."

"We're committed to making this work," John agreed. "We'll make this work."


	7. 26th April

Sherlock's favourite lab to commandeer at Bart's was blessedly quiet, and he was settling into a relaxing afternoon of watching processes develop when his phone rang, startling him. He mentally checked the time – it was early still, John was at the clinic and wasn't expecting him for hours. He fished the phone out of his pocket, and the caller ID said it was Alexa. _She never calls during school_. His chest tightened and he answered the call. “What's wrong?”

A broken sob came down the line. “Daddy, thank god.”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat that had appeared when she called him _daddy_. “What happened, Alexa? Are you okay?”

“It's Gran,” she gasped. “She – she had a stroke and sh...”

“It's okay,” he said quickly – she didn't need to tell him how serious it was. “I'm coming down right away.”

“You don't have to,” she protested weakly.

“I'm coming,” he repeated, and was already getting into his coat. “I don't know if John will be able to get away right now, but I'm on my way.”

“It's okay. I'll see you soon?”

“I'll text you an ETA when I have one. Where are you now?”

“School. I think I'm going to be going back to my room soon.”

“I'll pick you up there. Soon as I can.”

 

 

Sherlock made it to Bournemouth with a hastily-packed overnight bag in just under three hours. He picked up Alexa from her dormitory, and they went to the hospital where Mrs Bradbury had been taken. A nurse met them at reception and led them to her small room in a quiet ward, and on the way explained that she had been brought in an ambulance with symptoms of a haemorrhagic stroke, and by the time she was admitted an EEG showed virtually no higher brain activity. Alexa was breathing raggedly and clutching Sherlock's arm by the time they got to the room, so he sat her down in a chair by the nurses' station and knelt in front of her. “Are you okay?”

Her face crumpled. “No. I can't do it, I can't go in there.”

“All right, that's fine.” He took her hands gently. “Do you want me to go in and see her?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Although, I mean, it's sort of not allowed, right? You're not supposed to look at someone who can't see you.”

That threw Sherlock for a moment. “Aren't you?”

She shook her head. “Jewish thing. 'S why we don't have viewings or anything with funerals.”

“Oh, right. I actually did know that, I remember now. Do you still want me to go? See her one more time, in your place?”

She swallowed a sob. “Yeah.”

"Okay. You stay here, and I'll be right back." He gave her hands another squeeze, then got to his feet and turned towards the dimly-lit open doorway.

There was a middle-aged woman dressed in black sitting in the room with Sarah Bradbury's frail body, murmuring under her breath, and she looked up when Sherlock and the nurse came in. “Shalom.”

“Shalom,” Sherlock replied automatically, and looked around the room quickly, taking in what little there was to see. “I'm Sherlock Holmes, Alexandra's father.”

“Ruth Bergman.” She rose briefly and they shook hands. “Thank you for coming, Mr Holmes. I'm a member of the synagogue and a shomer for Sarah; our law says someone has to be with her continuously until she's buried.”

Sherlock glanced at the body of the woman he'd met once before. “She's not dead yet, though. The stroke wasn't immediately fatal.”

“It didn't kill her,” the nurse explained, “but it's only a matter of time before the haemorrhage takes over her brainstem completely and her vital functions stop.”

“She has a DNR, so you didn't take any life-saving measures when she came in. That's why she's not on any kind of life support right now, either.”

She nodded. “She was already unconscious by the time she got to emergency, and with the DNR our hands were pretty well tied.”

“How long does she have?”

“Hard to say. A couple days, probably.”

“And there's no chance of her getting better. Even if the bleed doesn't progress, she could easily throw another clot that would be fatal.”

“The damage to her frontal lobe is irreversible. It's why her family's asked the shomer to come in already. At this point legal death is more of a technicality. She's not coming back.”

There was a beat of stillness after that, the loudest sound the slow beeping of the heart monitor.

“How's Alexa doing?” Ruth asked softly.

“About as well as you'd expect,” Sherlock said grimly. “Her mother last autumn, and now this.”

“I am glad you're here. She and her mother weren't in the synagogue so they're not really part of the community, and what I understand she doesn't have anyone but you now.”

Sherlock wasn't sure what to say to that. “I … I guess I'm glad I can be here for her.”

“You live in London, don't you?”

“Yeah. As long as the adoption goes through she'll be moving in with us after the school term ends.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” She gave him a sad smile. “Go be with Alexa. She doesn't need to be here.”

Sherlock went back out into the hall. Alexa had paced around, and was leaning against the nurses' station. Behind him, he heard the shomer begin reciting under her breath again.

“This makes you my next of kin,” Alexa said quietly. “There's nobody else left.”

“Come here.” He wrapped his arms around her, and she tucked her head under his chin. “It's all right. I'm here, and John is on his way, and we're going to take care of you.”

She started to cry, and he held her more tightly. “Do you promise?” she sobbed.

Sherlock tried to blink back the tears that were threatening. “I promise,” he said, and his voice was rough. “You're our daughter and we won't abandon you.”

She began crying harder at that, and he kept holding her, rocking gently, until she calmed down after a few minutes and drew back, wiping at her face with her sleeve. “I'm sorry,” she sniffed.

“It's okay, sweetheart.” He wiped a tear off her chin with his thumb. “Are you hungry?”

She nodded. “Starving. Can we get out of here?”

“Of course. Do you want to pick a restaurant?”

“Okay. Will John be coming?”

Sherlock glanced at his watch. “He only just got done at the clinic. He's going to text me when he gets on the train, so he'll be a few more hours.”

“And you're staying in town tonight?”

“As long as you need me.” He picked up their bags and led her down the corridor towards the lift, away from where her grandmother lay dying.

She glanced back for a moment, then followed him. “Um … I have a sort of … weird question.”

“What is it?”

“Would it be okay if I stayed with you tonight? At the hotel?”

He gave her a surprised look. “Sure, if your school will allow it.”

“You're my dad, don't they have to?”

“I don't know if they have to, but I'll ask. Let's do dinner first, though.”

“Can we just eat at your hotel? I'm not really up for going anywhere.”

“That's fine.” They got into the lift, and he gave her shoulder a squeeze. “We'll eat pub food and then watch some telly while we wait for John.”

She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, leaning into his touch. “Okay.”

 

 

By the time they got to the Commodore, John had texted that he was on the train and was going to be there in two hours. Sherlock spent a few minutes convincing the desk clerk to switch him to the only room in the hotel that could accommodate three people, and then they dropped off their things in the room and went down to the pub.

They ate quickly, then went back upstairs, where they both stretched out on one bed and Sherlock called Alexa's school to let them know she was staying with him, then promptly dozed off. He jerked awake when there was a knock at the door, and Alexa got up to let John in. He embraced her for a very long minute, then came all the way in and gave Sherlock a hello kiss on the cheek. “How is everything?”

He stretched and yawned. “Okay is the word of the day, I think.”

“Do you need to get anything from your room at school, Alexa?”

“I should probably go get a few things,” she said reluctantly. “Toothbrush, et cetera.”

“I'll walk over to campus with you,” John offered. “I don't think this one has it in him.”

“No, I'm up, I'm up.” He sat up and rubbed his face. “I'll come along. It's only eight o'clock anyway, I can't go to bed yet.”

“You can if you need to,” John said with a smile.

“No, it's fine, it's fine.” He started putting his shoes back on. “You drop off your things, take a minute, and we'll walk over.”

The walk was short and the evening was mild, and Sherlock and John awkwardly hung around in the common room while Alexa spent a minute gathering a bag of overnight things. They started back as soon as she'd said good night to her roommate, and as soon as they were off campus John noticed her starting to sag. “Hey, you all right?”

“Yeah. I mean, no, but yeah. You know what I mean?”

“I know, yeah.” He smiled sadly. “Was there anything you wanted to do tonight?”

“No, just watch something and fall asleep.”

“Do you think you'll be going to school tomorrow?”

“I don't know. I kinda don't think I could focus.”

“It's all right if you're not up for it,” Sherlock said. “Take the time you need. Everyone understands.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She yawned. “Eight-thirty is too early for bed, but I might do it anyway.”

“You've had a hell of a day. Sleep will be good.”

“I need to get some dinner,” John mentioned. “You two ate already?”

“We had dinner in the pub. You could get something from room service. Now that I'm awake again I probably will be for a while, but I don't think Alexa wants to be left alone so it's best if we stay in the room, I think.”

John smiled at them. “I can do chips in the room.”

“Get a dessert, too,” Alexa said, perking up slightly. “After a day like this I could use a sugar bomb.”

 

 

The next morning, Sherlock exercised his status as Alexa's soon-to-be-guardian and called her out of school, and then they had breakfast together before going for a wander on the beach. Sherlock's phone rang while they were looking for shells, and he excused himself quickly and went a short distance away to take it.

Alexa was giving him a fearful look when he came back. “How bad is it?”

He grimaced. “She passed away this morning.”

She bit her lip and looked down at the shell in her hands. “I mean, she really died yesterday, didn't she?”

Sherlock looked helplessly at John, who cleared his throat. “If it helps you to think of it that way, it's fine.”

“I guess this means there's going to be a funeral.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock confirmed. “Probably tomorrow, they said. Just have to confirm with the rabbi.”

“Somebody else is doing all the preparations, right? I mean, I'm her closest relative, but I'm just a kid, and I'm not even really Jewish, so--”

“It's okay,” Sherlock interrupted her. “You're not expected to do anything, your mother's cousin Peter is taking care of everything. He's the one who called me.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay. So I guess he's going to be calling Uncle Saul and everyone too.”

“Your uncle probably isn't going to come. He'd never be here in time.”

She let out a loud sob and clapped her hand over her mouth. Sherlock pulled her into a hug and she hid her face against his chest, then he looked to John, who gave him a helpless shrug. “Are you …” he ventured, but wasn't really sure where to go from there.

“No!” she wailed, not picking her head up from where she was clutching the front of his shirt. “I'm not okay! I hated Gran and now she's dead and it shouldn't be _hurting_ this much!”

Sherlock tentatively wrapped his arms more tightly around her back, and she shuddered against him. John stepped closer and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Let's go back to the hotel.”

She spent the next few hours in bed, but got up when John suggested they go outside to eat the food Sherlock had picked up while he was out walking and trying to think. They took their time, silently watching the other guests and picking at their sandwiches and crisps, and when they had finished Alexa sat back with a resigned sigh. “Are both of you going to come to the funeral?”

They glanced at each other, uncertain. “If you'd like us to,” John said.

“I don't want to go alone.”

“That's fine, we'll come along. I packed a couple of ties so I think we can be dressed appropriately.”

“Do we need to wear a kippah for the service?” Sherlock asked. “I don't know if this synagogue requires it.”

“It's not _required_ required, like, it's not like they won't let you in, but men are supposed to cover their heads.”

Sherlock frowned. “I've got one at home but I didn't think to grab it.”

“The reform synagogue in Christchurch Road has a shop. It's a half hour walk from here.”

“Is it really that big a deal?” John asked, and Sherlock shrugged.

“It's a sign of respect, and it's important if we don't want to call attention to ourselves, which we don't. They make them specifically for men like us who just need to wear it for a funeral or whatever; they're inexpensive and we only need to wear them when we're in the synagogue and at the gravesite.”

“You know a lot about Jewish funerals,” Alexa commented.

“This isn't my first.”

“Comes up in the work?”

“From time to time.” He crumpled up the package from his sandwich with a sigh. “I need to get out and move. I can walk over and do the shopping if you two want to stay here and rest.”

“I could use a laid-back afternoon if we're going to a funeral tomorrow,” John said.

“And I've got homework I should try to catch up on,” Alexa added. “I just need to get a couple of books but then I can work on it here.”

“Let's walk together,” John suggested. “Then you and I can come back while your dad goes and gets all his troublemaking out.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he got up. “Really, John? Troublemaking?”

“Why, what do you call it?”

“I'm not even sure what _it_ is meant to be.”

John quirked a half smile. “ _It_ is when you get back from buying funeral kippahs and have a story to tell.”

“Kippot,” Sherlock corrected. “And I won't have a story.”

John shared a look with Alexa. “We'll see, won't we?”

It was coming on five o'clock when he did get back, and after some persuasion he agreed to tell them about it over a dinner consisting primarily of mountains of spaghetti. Alexa seemed to forget her problems while they were eating, and afterwards they went back to the hotel where she fell asleep while they watched television.

 

 

Thursday morning arrived blanketed in fog, but it had burned off by the time they finished breakfast. They got to the synagogue right on time, and made it through the service without incident, then awkwardly carpooled with Alexa's family to the cemetery, where Sherlock started getting restless. Alexa seemed to pick up on this, even though she was standing with her cousin and the rest of the family, and as soon as the ceremony was finished she ducked away and all but plastered herself to Sherlock's side. “Can we _please_ leave now?”

“You don't want to go with them for the food or anything?”

“I can't stand to be around these people another minute,” she hissed, and he noticed the tears starting to well in her eyes. “I have to get out of here.”

“That's fine, whatever you need.” He nodded to John, and they slipped away as quietly as they could.

The walk back down to the main road was longer than they'd realised, and Sherlock spotted a pub when they finally got there. "I'm getting pretty hungry," he said, "how about you two?"

John nodded and looked to Alexa, who had a blank, exhausted expression. "I could eat. I guess it's lunch time."

"You okay with pub food again?" John asked. "We seem to be having a lot of it this week."

"Really I just want to sit down."

John shot a worried look at his husband, who pressed his lips into a thin line and touched Alexa's shoulder gently. She followed John into the restaurant with Sherlock just behind, but after they sat down she just stared at the menu, so Sherlock wound up awkwardly ordering fish and chips for her while John watched his beer disappear. They picked at their food silently, and although Sherlock gave John a sharp look when he ordered a second drink, Alexa seemed too dazed to notice. Once they had finished as much as they were going to, Sherlock hailed a cab, and they made their way back to the hotel. As soon as they arrived Alexa kicked her shoes off and crawled back into her bed, but Sherlock kept John in the hall with a hand on his arm and let the door close. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What do you mean, what do I think I'm doing? What the fuck were _you_ doing?"

Sherlock looked aghast. "I was taking my daughter to her grandmother's funeral and trying to comfort her, not like _someone_ who was acting standoffish and getting _drunk_ at lunch time!"

John bristled. "I did _not_ get drunk. And I'm not the one who was acting like a five year old as soon as we left the synagogue. You really couldn't sit still for another half hour? You had to be Sherlock Holmes who's better than all this _sentiment_ , didn't you?"

"I did no such thing!"

"My god, you really don't know, do you? It was _painfully_ obvious that you didn't want to be there. I'm surprised nobody asked you to leave before she did."

"What, was I supposed to be touchy-feely with all sorts of people I don't know, over a woman I'd met once? Not like you were doing that either, and if anyone stood out as not belonging it was definitely you, not me."

"Not _belonging_? It's a funeral, you're not supposed to _belong, y_ ou're just supposed to be _respectful_."

"I was respectful! You're the one who didn't know what the hell was happening and just sort of looked around blankly the whole time. You don't even _look_ Jewish."

John's eyebrows crawled all the way up his forehead. "I don't ...? What the _fuck_ , Sherlock? That doesn't matter at all!"

He waved a dismissive hand, but his face was growing red. "Fine, whatever. But for god's sake, John, two beers at lunch? Why? Why would you do that?"

"I don't understand why you have a problem with that!" John burst out, throwing his hands in the air. "You _know_ I'm terrible with this shit. Probably even worse than you, for as much as you _bitch_ about it, but I'm trying, all right? I'm trying to be sympathetic and connect with Alexa but it's really hard, and it's even harder when you're acting like all of this is the most distasteful thing you've ever done!"

"Jesus, John!" Angry tears fell down Sherlock's cheeks. "I'm _sorry_ if I'm coping poorly, I really am, but I'm doing my best, and I just want you to work with me instead of ... instead of _withdrawing_ and _drinking_ and making me feel like I'm not good enough to do this."

The door opened suddenly, and Alexa glowered at them. "Come in. Both of you. Now."

They were too shocked to argue, and stepped meekly into the room. She sat heavily on the bed and waved a hand at them. "Just make up and be done arguing, okay?"

Sherlock sagged, and John's face softened. He took his husband's hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock let out a relieved sigh. "I'm sorry too." He looked to Alexa. "We're sorry. We shouldn't be fighting, we should be here for you."

"Yes, well, you are now, so let's just go from here, okay? The last three days have sucked plenty without you both adding to it."

Sherlock sat timidly on the bed next to her. "I'm sorry we haven't been helping you."

"I didn't say that." Her anger had evaporated, and she looked small and fragile. "You have been helping, just by being here. It feels good to know you care enough about me to come all the way down from London just because Gran had a stroke that took nobody by surprise."

"We couldn't very well leave you alone," John said. "You're our girl, and we want to be with you, it's only unfortunate that we happen to live apart right now. You know it's only the paperwork that says the three of us aren't a family yet."

She looked up at him, eyes glistening. "You really mean it?"

"Alexa, of course we mean it." He smiled and sat on her other side, and both men wrapped their arms around her back. "You know that we applied to adopt you in February. You were there when we signed everything."

"Yeah, I know, I just ...." She shook her head. "I don't know, it doesn't seem real. All of this, the last several months, it just ... it feels like a dream."

"I know," Sherlock said softly. "It does for us, too. Like we're going to wake up and find out that none of this is really happening."

"Yeah."

"But it _is_ happening," Sherlock said. "We did the paperwork, and we wake up every day knowing that we're one day closer to having you with us. Ever since Christmas it's felt different at home, without you there."

She glanced at him and smiled hesitantly. "Sometimes when I'm going to sleep I pretend I'm there instead of here. Which is a little weird, I guess."

"Boarding is difficult," Sherlock said. "It's not home. You miss your family, even if you don't like them that much. Sometimes I even missed my brother."

She giggled, and John smiled at them both, cautiously relived that the mood in the room had turned. "Must have been awful for you."

"You've no idea. I'm certain neither of you has ever in your lives _wanted_ to see Mycroft, and you can imagine what a shock it was for me."

"I won't be boarding after I come to live with you, will I?" Alexa asked with some uncertainty.

"Of course not," John said. "Living with us is living with us. You'll go to school in the day like a normal kid, and then come home."

"Unless you _want_ to board," Sherlock added, and she made a face at him.

"God, no. I've had more than enough of that." She sighed. "Speaking of, though, I guess I should probably be getting back to school. I've missed three days now, and my roomie has texted me a bunch though I haven't really checked it."

"She's been texting you?" John said, surprised.

Alexa shrugged. "Just homework and stuff. It's not a big deal but I'll need to get back to it to keep my grades up."

"Are you sure you're ready to go back?" Sherlock asked.

"No, but I have to do it. If nothing else the school work will be a distraction from all of this ... whatever this has all been. And I'm sure my friends are wondering about me."

"If you must. I suppose it's not very responsible of us to keep you out of school, is it?"

She smiled at him. "I wouldn't mind. Much."

John crossed his arms and grinned. "God, I couldn't have been right when I said there'd be two of you to look after now." They wrinkled their noses at him in tandem, and he laughed. "Yes, very cute. Come on, we can have one more group hug, and then we need to get Alexa back to her studies."

 

 

They arrived at the school just as classes were getting out for the afternoon, and spent a little while getting to know some of Alexa's friends before they reluctantly said goodbye with a promise to come back and see her again the following weekend.

 

 

They weren't sure what to do with themselves when they got back to the Commodore, so John suggested a drink in the bar before supper, followed by an early night in preparation for an early departure back to London the next day. They'd barely had the first sip when Sherlock's mobile rang, and with a tired apology went to answer it outside.

He came back in a few minutes later, and perched wearily on the bar stool beside his husband. “Happy birthday, John.”

“What? My birthday was last week."

“I know, but it turns out I got you something you really wanted.”

“Sherlock, I really don't understand what you're talking about.”

“That was Cora on the phone. I'm Alexa's legal guardian now.”

John set his glass down harder than he meant to and stared at him in shock for a long minute before he found his voice. “Just ... just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“What about the adoption?”

“Slightly different, from what I understand, and still in progress. Once that goes through we'll be her parents. Right now it's only me that's her guardian.”

“But this means it should go through, right?”

Sherlock gave him a tentative smile. “Happy birthday. I got you a daughter.”

John was overcome for a moment; he pressed his hand to his mouth and drew a rough breath in through his nose, then let it out. "Does she know yet?"

He shrugged. "She knew it was going to happen. I'm her next of kin and I'm willing, so I'm officially her dad now."

John framed Sherlock's face with his hands and pulled him into a firm kiss. "Oh my god, we're really dads. We have a daughter."

Sherlock gave a giddy laugh, and tears sparkled in his eyes. "We have a daughter."

 


	8. 9th July

John set down the box inside the door of Alexa's room, and stretched with a wince. "How many books do you _have_?"

Alexa looked over from where she was busy arranging paperbacks on a shelf and shrugged. "I don't know. Lots?"

"I thought the point of getting an e-reader was so you wouldn't have as many physical books."

"These are all special," she explained, coming over and peering into the box before nudging it across the floor with her foot.

"Oh, really."

"Yes, really."

John sat on the bed and watched as she continued arranging her new shelves. A breeze came through the open window, and he sighed in relief. "Where's your dad, anyway? I'm a war hero, _he_ should be the one doing the heavy lifting."

"Last I saw, he was in the kitchen arguing with Uncle Mycroft. Something about biohazards?"

John rolled his eyes. "I don't know why Mycroft bothers. I gave up that fight years ago."

"Exactly," she said. "You've done just fine with his experiments around, and I'm not stupid. Even if you hadn't given me a crash course in navigating the kitchen at Christmas, I think I would probably manage not to poison myself."

John hummed in agreement, and looked around the room while Alexa focussed on her books again. They had begun redecorating the room as soon as the adoption paperwork had finally cleared in early May, and as soon as Alexa's school term ended they had started moving her into her new home.

The first thing they'd done was to repaint the room, from its former dingy beige to a pale lavender with darker plum trim and casings. Sherlock had proven himself quite adept with a paint roller, and the father and daughter had the entire room complete in a single Saturday. The curtains had gone next, and the windows now sported layers of white gossamer.

Finally they had tackled the furniture issue. The bed and chest of drawers were in fine shape, but Alexa needed her own set of shelves (the ones downstairs were completely packed with Sherlock's things), a wardrobe that didn't smell like mothballs, and a new desk, since she had quickly declared the rickety old one completely unsuitable. This all led to the three of them spending a harrowing day at Ikea. It had been harrowing for John, at least -- Alexa and Sherlock had both been utterly delighted by the showrooms and spent hours discussing minute details while John tried not to be too bored and occasionally escaped to the cafe for more coffee. The worst bit had been when they made it into the bedroom section of the store, and Sherlock made a quick decision to try out all the beds. "John! Come lie on this and tell me what you think. I've been thinking our mattress could use an upgrade, what do you think?"

John had scowled at him. "You've been thinking no such thing. And since when do you care about the quality of our mattress? You sleep like you're dead no matter where you are."

"It would help your back," Sherlock said authoritatively. "And it would be quieter too. I determined that most of the noise is from the springs in the mattress, not the bed frame itself. It's rather sturdy, actually, which I realized when --"

"Don't you _dare_ finish that sentence," John hissed, going bright red and jabbing a finger into Sherlock's bony sternum. Alexa was in a model room nearby, ignoring them so pointedly that it seemed to draw even more attention. The other shoppers were eyeing them warily.

Sherlock blinked at him as understanding dawned. "Oh, right, public place. Sorry."

John sighed and sat on the bed. "A new mattress might be nice, though. God only knows how old that one is. Did it come with the flat?"

"Yes, along with the rest of the furniture," Sherlock said, inspecting another mattress before bouncing lightly on it. "I don't suppose Mrs Hudson would mind if we replaced it, do you?"

And so it was that they finally made it home with a wardrobe, a large bookcase, a computer desk, an office chair, an armchair, several cushions, three lamps, an area rug, and a queen-size memory foam pillowtop mattress that it had taken two hours and three salespeople to get Sherlock to finally settle on. Somehow it had all fit into the van that Sherlock had somehow acquired for the errand (John suspected Mycroft's involvement but didn't dare question it), and they had stayed up half the night assembling -- and then re-assembling -- the furniture. John fell into bed exhausted, and was on the verge of thanking Sherlock for insisting on the new mattress, but was sound asleep before his husband came back from brushing his teeth two minutes later.

Once the furniture was in place, all that remained was to fetch Alexa's things and move them in. Once again a van had appeared, and by mid-afternoon on the second day everything had at least made it inside the front door of 221 Baker Street. John was eager to clear out the foyer, but the day was hot and getting even more humid as evening drew in, and his shoulder was starting to bother him.

"Must be a storm coming in," he said, and Alexa made an interested sound as she stood up with an armful of books.

"How can you tell?"

"Pressure's dropping. Makes my bad shoulder hurt."

"Hm." She stepped back and looked at her shelves. "D'you think textbooks up here in the middle, or down low?"

"Put them on the bottom," Sherlock said as he entered the room. "It's more stable." He sat down on the bed beside John and made a face. "You're sweaty."

"That's because I've been working, carrying heavy boxes up from downstairs. Unlike certain other people."

Sherlock flopped backwards. "It's too hot to work."

"Still has to be done. Where's Mycroft?"

"Just left."

"Don't suppose he brought anything upstairs, did he?"

Sherlock snorted. "You've met my brother."

John rolled his eyes. "Of course, what was I thinking."

Sherlock stretched his arms above his head. "Well, here we are," he said. "You're official now, Alexa. Part of the family."

"It's pretty surreal." She slid a dictionary onto the shelf and flopped on the bed, antiparallel to Sherlock so that their shoulders touched. "Everything feels different all of a sudden."

"Different in a good way?"

She smiled and nudged her shoulder into his. "Definitely good. Like I can finally believe that this is all real, that I actually live here with you."

"It's probably about time you and John worked out what you're going to call him, then," Sherlock said. "Since we're officially your parents now, and you officially live with us. You still feel funny calling him by his name?"

"Yeah, it's too ... I don't know, disrespectful?" She shrugged and looked up at John. "I mean, it's not that bad. But it's a little weird talking to my friends because I'm not quite sure how to describe you."

"What do you normally call me?"

"In the third person? My step-dad, but that feels sort of wrong since you've adopted me and everything."

John chuckled. "I do hope I'm a bit more than a step-father to you."

"You are," she said earnestly, "and that's why it's so hard. You and Dad are like ... equal dad. If that makes sense. But I'm thinking about when school starts up, and it's going to be awkward to explain to every single person I meet that I moved to London to live with my biological father and his husband, and they've adopted me even though they didn't know about me until I was suddenly without parents last autumn. It's awkward, and step-father is impersonal."

"Quite a dilemma," John agreed.

"You couldn't call us both Dad?" Sherlock suggested.

"No," she said, after a pause. "I've only got one Dad with a capital D, and it's you. For a while I didn't have any, and one seems like the right number."

"You know people are going to refer to us collectively as your dads," John pointed out.

"Yeah, they do already, and that's fine as a generic term," Alexa said. "But I can't call you by the same thing."

"So we're looking for something more respectful than 'John', but not a mouthful, and 'Dad' is taken," Sherlock summarized.

"Daddy?" John suggested.

Alexa snorted. "Maybe if I was _five_."

He laughed. "All right, fine. What about Papa?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Isn't that dreadfully posh?"

" _You're_ dreadfully posh," Alexa retorted, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead. "And it only sounds bad if you say it like, 'Oh, Pa _pa_ , how _lovely_ to see you this afternoon, will you be joining us for tea and _sand_ wiches in the _gaaaa_ rden?'"

John couldn't help but laugh, and Sherlock cracked a broad smile. "I don't think I'd realize you were talking to _me_ if you said it like that."

"Papa," Alexa said, rolling the syllables around her mouth experimentally. "Papa?" She looked up at John, who raised his eyebrows at her.

"Yes?"

She grinned and sat up. "Papa, Papa, Papa."

"Papa-Papa-Papageno..." Sherlock sang under his breath, and he and Alexa promptly dissolved in a fit of giggles.

John furrowed his brow. "Wait, what? What was that?"

"Just a little Mozart," Alexa said, catching her breath.

"From _Die Zauberfl_ _ö_ _te,_ " Sherlock explained. "Papageno is a bird-man."

“I'm not sure I like the sound of that.”

“Don't worry, John, if you're Papageno that makes me your little wife.”

“Can I be the Queen of the Night?” Alexa said. “Only I learned her aria on violin and everything.”

“Who's Sarastro, then?” Sherlock said, raising one eyebrow. “Did you break up with a horrible young man recently?”

She rolled her eyes and blushed a little. “As _if._ ”

"Sherlock, be nice," John scolded playfully. "She's allowed to have some secrets."

"Secrets? In my house?" Sherlock sat up and acted mock scandalised. "We may have to have a family meeting about that, _Papa_."

John laughed and kissed Sherlock's nose.

"Stop being so cute," Alexa teased. "I'm hungry. Can we get pizza for dinner?"

"Fine by me," John said. "You going to eat, Sherlock?"

"I want extra cheese this time," Sherlock said. "You can get a salad if you're worried about your lipids." He stood and helped John to his feet. "Is your leg bothering you?"

"A bit, yeah," he admitted as they all went downstairs. "It's not that old limp, though. I think I did something funny to my hip while we were doing the furniture the other day, and then sitting in the van for so long, and the pressure's dropping right now. I think we'll get a storm tonight."

"What about your shoulder?"

John narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what you're getting at, but I'm on to you."

Sherlock blocked the door to the sitting room, where Alexa was already on his laptop placing an order with the Pizza Hut across the street. "You're sweaty, and I'm a bit warm," he said, his voice soft and deep in a way that made John's skin tingle. "I think we have time for a shower before the pizza gets here."

John licked his lips, and didn't miss the fact that Sherlock's pupils dilated as he watched. "I think we do." He pressed a lingering kiss to Sherlock's eager lips, then ducked around him into the room. "Alexa?"

She looked up. "Papa."

John grinned and gave Sherlock a gentle shove towards the back of the flat. "We're going to shower." He got out his wallet and handed her a few notes. "This should cover the pizza. Are you going to go collect it?"

Her expression quickly moved through confusion to horror. "You're -- no!"

"John!" Sherlock called, "hurry up!"

"We'll try to be quiet?"

"You're never quiet!"

He grimaced.  "We'll be fast?"

She sighed dramatically. "If you don't hear from me in twenty minutes it means I've _died_ of _embarrassment_. Also we get to watch a movie that I pick tonight."

"Of course, love, of course."

"It might be an opera," she warned. "Maybe _The Magic Flute._ "

"That would be fine." He heard the shower start, and started moving towards his husband. "You're a good sport."

She rolled her eyes and brushed past him down the stairs, but he could see her smiling a little despite herself. "I'll be back soon, Papa."

He hesitated until she was out the front door, then made his way to the bathroom where Sherlock had already stepped into the shower. He stripped quickly and joined him, whereupon he was immediately descended upon with slippery wet kisses.

He pulled back after a minute, running his fingers through Sherlock's wet hair. "I meant to ask," he murmured. "What's this all really about? You're not usually in the mood at all when the weather gets hot."

Sherlock let out a nervous laugh. "You always see right through me."

John looked closer, and a knot of worry tied up in his chest. "You've been crying."

Sherlock nodded, laughed again, and this time made no effort to conceal how emotional he was. "Yeah."

"God, Sherlock, what's wrong? Is it about Alexa?"

"No, John, no, nothing's wrong." He leaned in and gave him a brief kiss. "But it is Alexa. I'm just so happy right now, but I didn't want her to know that I'm ... well."

John grinned, and relaxed. "A little fucked up over it?"

Sherlock nodded, and let John pull him into a hug. "I'm her dad, I have to have a stiff upper lip."

John laughed. "That only applies to bad things. She can see you happy."

"Some things I do want to keep just between us, though," he said softly. "Like how you being called Papa makes me feel like my heart is going to burst. I didn't think I could love you more and then she called you that, and ... it's just so wonderful, and you being a father is so _sexy_."

John kissed him again, firmly. "Now you know how I've felt," he breathed.

They didn't speak after that, and hadn't managed to use any soap by the time they heard Alexa return with the pizza a short while later. Sherlock had managed to compose himself by then, and threw on some light clothes before he went eagerly out to her. John took a minute longer, and lingered by the fridge, watching them in the sitting room. Finally they turned, and Alexa gave him a bright smile. "Come on, Papa, the pizza's getting cold."

He shot her a cheeky grin. "How can it get cold when the weather's like this?"


End file.
